The Assassin III: Godsplitter
by Metatron Alastor
Summary: The weave of Fate is about to unravel, and Skyrim is falling apart. Dragons glide in the skies day and night and the war ravages the land. In the midst of chaos, the Assassin makes his way through the shaking remains of that once proud land, following the last thread of the web: the one bound both in his blood and his soul
1. Prologue: A New Hunt

'Azrael, Azrael!'

'Yes, Vekel?'

The barman put his hand on the doorjamb and panted. His eyes were wide open, but the Assassin suspected the man wasn't scared. He was just in a hurry. He had come there to warn him. Of what? That was beyond his ability to understand people.

'Elves… The Thalmor.'

Azrael stole him a cold glance, turned around and clapped his hands twice.

'Bryn, Karliah. We're going. Grab your weapons.'

The two Nightingales didn't don their signature armor. Those were safe beside their beds. Nevertheless, the studded leather of the Thieves Guild suit would have sufficed. They didn't plan to be seen in the first place; if the durability of the armor became a factor, than something had gone wrong. Karliah grabbed her bow and arrows and Brynjolf his two daggers. The Assassin double-checked the position of his own weapons and turned at Vekel again. He needed every bit of information possible before lunging into the Thalmor's jaws.

'How many of them?'

'They're just scouts,' answered Vekel. 'They didn't exactly ask if they could go into the Warrens. They threatened me and there was no one around! Are you short on time?'

'Maybe. They need the target alive, so that will give us some more. You,' he said, turning back at his two fellow Nightingales, 'done?'

'Yes, lad.'

'Yes, Azrael.'

'Good. Vekel, if any more Thalmor show up sent them where you sent the others.'

'But… They'll come your way!'

'Exactly. Take care.'

Vekel stood motionless for a moment, looking at the Guild Master and his two colleagues leaving the Cistern. The Assassin walked fast. His legs were long and his steps were long. The two behind him had to pace very quickly to keep up. The grim silhouette of the Assassin vanished behind the corner a moment later; the last thing disappearing was the cloak, black as night. Brynjolf and Karliah walked side by side behind him, like two bodyguards, and followed him in the passageway.

'So,' said Brynjolf, while Azrael opened the door to the Flagon, 'in for a second hunt, are we?'

'We are.'

'First we set out to return the Skeleton Key,' chuckled Karliah, 'and now we're going to save someone. Things have really become messed up around here.'

'Not entirely my fault,' replied the Assassin.

'No, sure,' concurred Brynjolf, grinning, as they reached the door to the Warrens. 'However, your arrival seems to be a sign of the times.'

'Bryn, it's you humans who are obsessed with that. The twenty-five years Karliah spent running might seem a lot to you, but it may have been a tenth of her life.'

'Shor's Beard…' swore Bryn. 'Don't even want to think about a bunch of grumpy old Dark Elves discussing.'

'That's the exact what I always think about listening to a Nord of any age.'

The three laughed quietly and then took position. The corridor was rather narrow, and they moved organized their formation using that. Azrael flattened against the wall on the left, Karliah on the right and Brynjolf acted as a rearguard. The Assassin crept forward, looking if anything was in sight. Karliah would have warned him if she saw someone behind him. They tiptoed along the corridor, searching for enemy activity. Azrael guessed the Thalmor weren't far. Vekel had informed them just a couple of minutes before, and the Thalmor like to scavenge every nook and cranny.

'Azrael…' whispered Karliah. 'Behind you, on the other side.'

The Assassin was at the corner at the end of the corridor. There was a room with multiple floors, all of which were visible. Grates covered the openings, but the two Altmer patrolling down there were not invisible. They even carried torches. He peaked over the corner and looked at the one Karliah had warned him about. He was standing, looking the opposite way into the corridor, and donned a robe. He was a wizard. The Assassin, however, was a bit disorientated by the different layers.

'Bryn, you know this place?' he asked.

'Yes, lad.'

'Tell me how all those floors fit together.'

'Well, this way there's a footbridge to the other side. There, a long passageway goes down with a lot of turns and slopes that lead down. There's no stairs. That passage leads to the lower floor you see there. Any idea on how we dispatch of them?'

'Yes,' he said, turning towards them. 'Karliah will shoot the one guarding the main floor in the back. Meanwhile, we two run to the other side. The noise will get the other two's attention, and they will come up. We simply remain the darkness, and as soon as they run next to us we'll kill them both.'

'Nice one, lad.'

'As soon as you're ready, I'm ready,' said Karliah, nocking an arrow.

'Bryn, come forth a bit. We need to run fast.'

'Aye, lad.'

'Karliah.'

The arrow hissed while traveling through the air, and found its mark in the spine of the Thalmor. The two other soldiers down in the lower corridor heard the thunk and the choked screech of their comrade. They barely saw two shadows running across the footbridge, with short weapons in hand.

'It's the Blades agent! It has to be!' one cried.

The two run up the entire way to the upper floor. The way was long. A turning slope that led to a landing with a brazier. Then another slope to get to the main room, where they found and killed the beggar, and then finally a short corridor that led them to the footbridge. They guessed their enemies had arrived at that room, by the time, but no one was in it. Purplish lights shimmered in their hands as they conjured their weapons, holding the torches in their left. They ran into the corridor, looking if there was any trace of their foes. They made a guess once again, and imagined they waited for them at the corner. They were wrong.

Halfway along the passage, the torchlight brightened two dark figures. One was clad in an armor made of black leather, thin plates of dark steel and crimson cloth. That one had his face completely covered, aside from two red eyes that shined malevolently. The eyes of a Dunmer. The other one wore a set of leather armor, the one the Altmer had seen donned by the Thieves Guild members. Both held a dagger in their hands, and the two Thalmor soldiers were sprinting. They were too slow to react. Not that they didn't try, but stopping, regaining balance and then slashing takes some time. Their own speed killed them.

The Assassin just stretched his arms and impaled one of the two right in the belly. The High Elf weakened, and didn't collapse on the ground only because of the blade stuck in his gut. Brynjolf grabbed the dagger with both hands and ran ahead himself, using the impetus of both his strike and the enemy's speed. The slash bounced off the breastplate, but cut the side without too much problems. The angle had been the issue. Nevertheless, the Thalmor stumbled back and fell to the ground. Before he could even recover from the tumble, the Assassin plunged the Blade of Woe in the thin space between the gorget and the helmet.

'You don't know very well how to kill someone, do you?' said the Assassin.

'Killing has never been normal for me. I had only done that twice. That was the third. Don't want to know about your numerbs, lad.'

'I think I lost count. Anyhow, always aim for the armpits, the throat and knees if you're slashing. If you're thrusting that's a whole different story. Search the room,' he said, looking at the corridor leading down. 'I'll look at the corpse.'

The fire in the middle of the chamber was still burning, and had been kindled recently. That was good. It meant those Thalmor had arrived there just a moment before and barely had the time to look. Objects were scattered all over the floor. That beggar was clearly living there, and the High Elves had interrupted his usual day of life. Azrael knelt beside the corpse and looked.

 _Lying back like this… He got thrown backwards. Scrapes on the cheek… They probably held him there and lifted him up. They questioned him. This bruise is what's left of a punch, and this rotting cut what remains of a slash. The slash of a conjured sword. Yeah, just like the Thalmor. Lifted him up, asked him. No answer. Punched him. No answer. Killed him. And they call me tactless._

'Anything?' he asked aloud.

'Nothing important, lad. They came here searching. The purse here has been completely emptied, and the content was fastened in the soldier's belt.'

'They clearly came here looking for someone,' said Karliah. 'They didn't touch anything aside from what could have gave them information. Did not go really well for them.'

'Well, I don't really care what progress they made,' sneered the Assassin. 'As long as they die making them, obviously.'


	2. Paranoia

'That was the last of them.'

'About time. Bryn, the door. Karliah, stay on the opposite side of the room and stay on guard. It might take me a few minutes. And… If you can, try not to eavesdrop.'

Azrael went up the stairs. There were several lights coming from behind doors and from a large grate on the ceiling. Azrael guessed that they were outside of the walls of Riften. If so, he had never seen that grid from the outside. The light was sufficient for him, and same went for both of his Nightingale fellows. The illumined doors were three in total, plus one that completely covered the room behind.

The Assassin arrived to a door made of iron bars. There was a man sitting behind, huddled, dangling. Backwards, forwards, backwards, forwards… And then again. He wore a chef tunic and hat. Azrael had a déjà vu of himself dressed up like that, disguising as the Gourmet. Distant memories. Now that the Thieves Guild business was solved, even more so.

'You, I'm looking for an old man who hides around here,' the Assassin told him. 'Have you seen him?'

The man tossed his head abruptly and looked back at him with a mad stare; it was blurred, witless. It would have resembled the one of an animal, hadn't a very human cruelty shined in those eyes. He grabbed a dagger in one hand and a huge fork in the other. He lunged against Azrael raising both, screaming like a lunatic.

'I'm going to eat well tonight, my darling!'

The muffled, unmistakable sound of a blade piercing flesh. A short, quiet screech of pain. The thud of a body collapsing to the ground. The chef hat rolled away on the floor, and the clothes were dyed of red. The corpse lied down, shook by its last spasms. The eyes of the madman were wide open, and they were still staring at the blade which pierced the lunatic's heart.

'I'm muscle and bone,' commented the Assassin. 'I'd make for a horrible meal.'

Azrael continued his search. He ignored the door in front of him, that was locked up with the most complex mechanisms he had seen since they opened the Guild's Vault. There was another door, a wooden one, that was near a scaffolding made of the same wood. He knocked two times and then entered. Inside sat an old beggar. He kept an imperial helmet near him, lying on the floor, and a dagger near his chair. However, he didn't seem to have any interest in using them.

'Hello there.'

'It's hopeless,' replied the beggar. 'He told me. He's right, you know.'

'Who's right?' asked the Assassin.

'He explained it all to me. Before, when I still understood. I don't remember, but I still know.'

'Who?'

'You don't think there's any hope, do you? I don't. He's right.'

'Who are you talking about?'

'He'll tell you, just ask. You don't even need to ask. He'll tell you anyway.'

 _Sounds just like a member of the Blades…_ Azrael said to himself. _Well, at least I've found him. I think. This idiot can't possibly say something reasonable, if he even understands me. Whatever, we'll have to try that door and hope it's not another raving lunatic or cannibal._

'Listen,' the Assassin said to the beggar. 'Evil Elves are going to come. Stay on guard.'

'They were golden, even when they were dead. But their blood was red. I knew it would be.'

 _This man fought in the Great War. He must have seen hordes and hordes of Altmer,_ thought Azrael, while approaching the other door and looking at the complex devices that allowed it to function. It hadn't been open for several days, maybe weeks. Dust had piled on the bars. _Well, the guy living here is not less strange, but a bit saner. Well, paranoid, but that's a useful hint. If he's half as distrustful as Delphine depicted him, it would still be pathologic._

'Anyone home?' called out the Assassin.

None answered. Azrael grabbed the wooden peephole and opened it. The cracking sound made he suspect it had snapped in two, but he didn't care that much. The harsh manners worked, at the very least.

'Go away!' screamed a voice from the inside. The voice of an old man.

'Open the door, Esbern. I'm a friend,' replied the Assassin, glacial.

'What?' asked the man, rather unsettled. That alone blew his cover. The awkward lies that followed didn't help. 'No that's not me, I'm not Esbern! I don't know what you're talking about.'

'Chill down. Delphine sent me.'

'Delphine?' he asked. 'How do you… So you've finally found her, and she led you to me. And here I am, caught like a rat in a trap.'

'Esbern, drop your paranoiac concerns. I'm the Dragonborn.'

'What's that you said?' asked the old man in astonishment after a moment of silence. 'Dragonborn? So… So there's hope after all?' he kept asking, more to himself that Azrael. Once the surprise had given way to reason, his tone became more serious. 'You'd better come inside. Quickly now. Thalmor agents have been seen around the Ratway. Let me just open the door.'

Azrael waited, and expected the door to just open after a while. Instead, he heard noises and clangs coming from the other side.

'This will just take a moment,' said Esbern.

Metallic bangs kept coming from the other side of the door. Azrael crossed his arms, and sneered balefully as he waited.

 _Azura, have pity on me. What's that Delphine said? "If you think I'm paranoid, then you'll have trouble getting him to trust you." Nothing more true than that has even been said, damn it. How many damned cogs does he need to hide from a rabble of angry Thalmor?_

'This one always sticks…' commented Esbern, just before the next clang. 'There we go.'

'That lad could teach us something about security,' said Brynjolf from the door.

'You just think of something like that,' laughed the Assassin, 'and I'll surrender you to the guards.'

'Only a couple more!' Esbern informed him. The screeching of metal. Another creaking sound and finally the door opened slowly. 'Come in, come in!' said Esbern. 'Make yourself at home.'

The Assassin stepped in the room, and looked around at its surprisingly large size. The room was of an L shape, with the shorter branch having a bed and a desk full of paper rolls and notes. Azrael peaked in, and looked at the quill and inkwell lying on it. The papers were filled with notes, only a few were still blank. The bed was a mess, made of hay and with a cloak as covering. The table had some food on it, and the larger part of the room held some cupboards with bottles of water and food on them. They were clearly there as storage. He probably brought those there back when he hid. Saved, for later. Out of all the people Azrael had seen in there, he was by far the one that lived best. Perhaps years of paranoia and planning had taught him something. A lesson that proved valuable when he needed to go into hiding.

Meanwhile, the old man approached the table. He wore a dirty shirt, tore on the chest. The man was old, bald, with a deep wrinkles all over his cheeks and wide forehead. His beard was also very long. He could have shaved with the dagger that lied on his bedside table, but it was never advisable, and a razor isn't really a thing that would come to mind if you're running for your life. The Assassin noticed the tiredness on the man's face, but also the signs of anxiety. The muscles were tense, or had been for a very long time. The eyes were washy, and had livid bags under them. How much he slept was anyone's guess, but it hadn't been a lot.

The old man sat in a chair. Azrael leaned against the wall and put his hands behind his back.

'So, you… Dragonborn?' Esbern asked. 'Is it really true?'

'It is,' was the lapidary answer.

'Then…' said the old man, rubbing his head and drumming with his fingers on the table, 'then there's still hope, after all. For so long, all I could do was to watch our doom approach, helplessly.'

'And I don't think you merely mean the return of the Dragons, do you?'

'Dragons…' spat the man. 'They can be killed. The Blades killed many in their early days as dragonslayers. No, the Dragons are merely the final portent of the End of Days.'

'That a fancy name for the end of the world?' asked the Assassin, emotionlessly.

'Yes, indeed,' Esbern answered. 'The prophecies make clear the signs that will precede the end of time. One by one, I have seen them fulfilled. Alduin has returned! Just like the prophecy said. The Dragon from the dawn of time, that devours the souls of the dead. No one can escape his hunger, here or in the afterlife. Alduin will devour all things and the world will end. Nothing can stop it.'

'Nothing?' sneered the Assassin. 'Odd. I was told I can.'

'Yes, yes… Dragonborn,' whispered the man, as if punching that idea into his won mind. 'I tend to forget myself. I've lived without hope for so long. The prophecies are clear. Only a Dragonborn can stop Alduin,' continued the old man, and then raised from his chair. 'We must go. Quickly now. Take me to Delphine. We have much to discuss. Just one moment. I know time is at the essence,' he apologized, while going towards the desk 'but we must not leave secrets for the Thalmor. Now, there are things I must bring…'

'Azrael! Elves!'

Esbern felt the strong grip of the Assassin on his shoulder. Before he could turn, he heard a whisper.

'Do what you need to, and do it quick.'

Azrael got out of the room just in time to take a look at the newcomers. They were five Thalmor soldiers led by two wizards. There had been three, but one lied on the ground with an ebony arrow in the throat. Karliah was truly a skilled archer. The pals of the premature casualty conjured their swords and formed up the battle lines. The soldiers in front and the wizards in the back. Kind of simple, really. Azrael exchanged glances with Karliah, grabbed his bow as quickly as he possibly could, nocked an arrow and drew the string. As soon as the tension allowed him to hit his target, he released the shot. He was sure it would have hit. Karliah did the same. Brynjolf hid behind the door and waited for a more opportune moment to strike. Meanwhile, the imperial soldier that was hiding behind the door next to Esbern's ran outside and looked stunned at the High Elves. He grabbed his dagger and lunged against the tall Mer yelling and screaming.

'No! You can't be here! You're all dead! I already killed you over and over and over again!'

Azrael's arrow struck the wizard in the thigh, more than enough to dissuade him from raining fireballs on them. Karliah's hit its target in the chest, and the Elf collapsed to the ground holding the arrow piercing his torso. The arrow was poisoned, no doubts about it. The imperial soldier proved "a lad that's worth as much gold as he weights", as Bryn often said. He parried the swing of the conjured blade and swiped back, tearing the Elf's arm off. The armpits were a weak spot.

Azrael dashed forward, putting the bow away and grabbing Chillrend. Bryn assaulted the wounded wizards, but the one of them had recovered and forced him into cover with a stream of flames. His friend died to another arrow, while two soldiers already faced the Assassin. The imperial soldier had taken on another two, but was backing off. Karliah gave him a helping hand.

Azrael ran in, with a grim flare in his eyes. The first Thalmor was too slow to block the sweep, and Chillrend cut his body in half. The armor creased as the icy touch of the blade caressed it. The other parried the overhead swing, and tried to cast a spell with the free hand. Mistake. His hand flew off. From the stump irradiated a frosty grip that slowly but steadily got closer to the heart.

The imperial soldier got overwhelmed. A soldier kicked his knee, the other swung and grazed his chest with the tip of the conjured sword. The wound sparkled blue, as the magic ate away at the flesh. The Imperial staggered forward, plunging his dagger in the shoulder of one, only to be cut down by a strike coming from the other. Bryn stabbed the Elf from behind just a moment too late to save the man. As Azrael dodged and sliced off the leg of the last Thalmor soldier and Karliah killed the wizard, the ex-soldier collapsed to the ground. Blood dripped from his mouth. He muttered something indistinct even when his eyes closed under eyelids heavy as lead.

'How? How are you still alive…?'

The last screech of the wizard dying. The noise of the armored corpses spasming out on the ground. Azrael looked around, just to make sure everyone of them was dead. And they were. While Esbern got out of his hideout with the things he needed, the three Nightingales searched the corpses. Brynjolf took the gold pouches off the Elves' belts. Karliah gathered her arrows. Azrael investigated the two wizards, looking for any written orders or information. He found nothing. That was good. Maybe they were just an isolated patrol, and nothing of that had become common knowledge among the Thalmor. The longer it were kept secret, the better. Eventually, everything would have needed to surface, but it wasn't the right time. Yet.

'I almost feel sorry for him,' said Karliah, removing an arrow from a corpse and pointing at the dead soldier with it. 'He lived peacefully down here, with nobody to disturb him… Then we came and ruined his peace.'

'He died doing what he did best. Killing honey-skinned, strangely tall buds.'

'Honey-skinned? After they called you a grey-skin?' chortled Brynjolf from the door, checking the purses.

'What's wrong with that?' asked the Assassin, turning the corpse from prone to supine. 'Yours is pink. Pink, by Nocturnal. I don't think anything will make me laugh more than that.'

That happy and nonchalantly way of behaving after having cut down violently the enemy was rather new to Esbern. He had seen many things, but the Blades were always so serious and grave. Those three didn't seem to care about slaying others, or robbing corpses for that matter. A battle had just ended, one where they could have potentially died. And there they were, laughing like old comrades in a tavern. After all, they would have one day been old comrades in a tavern, so why not start laughing earlier? He was particularly surprised by the one that introduced himself as the Dragonborn. He didn't expect a knight in shining armor, but at least a Nord. Or a warrior with a solid plate of steel and iron. He'd have never imagined he Dragonborn to be a rogue, or whoever could don an armor like his.

'Lad, what do we do now?' asked Brynjolf.

'You two return to the Flagon,' replied the Assassin. 'I'll follow shortly after with our friend here. I'm taking him away. I'll grab Shadowmere and we'll race off towards Riverwood. You just do what I told you to. Should anything happen, you two are in charge and decide in my stead. If it needs to be absolutely sorted out by me specifically, then tell Delvin to sent a message to my siblings of the Brotherhood. They'll know how to find me.'

'Acknowledged, lad. Good travels.'

'Take care, Azrael,' said Karliah.

The two thieves disappeared in the labyrinth of the Warrens. The Assassin watched them disappear, and then turned towards Esbern. The man, true to his oath of serving the Dragonborn no matter the circumstances, didn't breathe a word about his opinion about his two other friends. They sure as Oblivion looked cheerful. Azrael would have been very happy of that definition. He hated the heroes of legend. Always serious, solemn, doing whatever Fate had told them to do. All without one single laughter. They were charged with saving the world, saving their people, saving whatever or whatnot… And they didn't laugh once. Azrael felt different. He had just been told he needed to save the world. The whole of Nirn, and maybe more. That was way too important to be taken seriously.

'So, loremaster of the Blades…' said the Assassin. 'Do we go?'

'Yes. We'd best be off as soon as possible.'

'We'll be leaving the city on my steed,' Azrael specified. 'Don't get too upset by the looks of it, will you?'

'I won't, Dragonborn.'

'One more thing,' continued the Assassin, opening the door that led to the Warrens. 'Name's Azrael. If you want to keep calling me Dragonborn, that's your business. Just know that I have a name.'

'Yes, Azrael.'

'Good man. Tell me, Esbern, how long have you been trapped here?'

'Oh, I've gone through many trials and changed various hideouts. How did you know you'd find me here? I believed I had covered my tracks well enough.'

'Your paranoia proved meager this time around,' joked the Dunmer, reaching the top of a flight of stairs and waiting for the old man. The loremaster didn't keep up with his pace too well. 'A member of the Thieves Guild gave away your position. The Thalmor interrogated him for days, he spit something after only three days. I freed him, stole the documents regarding your position and burned them. However, some patrols might have received information before I was able to stop them.'

'And where did the Thalmor keep such valuable information?'

'Their Embassy near Solitude.'

'And how did you end up there?'

'A friend of yours aided me.'

'Delphine?' asked the old man, surprised. 'She sent into the maws of the Thalmor? That was quite a gamble. You could have died by Thalmor hand, and all would have been lost.'

'A Dragonborn is not exactly a small, fragile thing that needs to be preserved,' objected the Assassin. 'That was the only way to obtain what we needed. Not even counting the fact that I've done far more dangerous things in my life.'

'Well, you do seem like an experienced combatant. What is your field of expertise, Dragonborn? Rogue? Robber?'

'Murderer.'

Esbern had no more words for him. He was far too old and had seen far too many things to moralize. For him, the Thalmor were evil incarnate. Everything else was decent or good, no matter the means used or the goals desired. Everything else, even a person's own profession and way of life, was of no interest to him. The Blades had been, for the last two hundred years, guards to the Emperor. In short, murderers. The difference between a soldier and an assassin wasn't worth discussing, and the extremes of the morality of both had long been a matter of discussion. Both guards and assassin are, at their core, murderers. The means seldom change, the goals at times. That changed little to nothing. Esbern was truly too old to moralize. There was no need. There was no time, more importantly.

'The skills derived from your line of work could turn out to be useful, someday,' replied the old man.

'They already have,' answered the Assassin, with a grim snigger. 'Several times over. Listen, while we're at it, tell me the essential things I need to know about Alduin's return. You can go into details while we get to Delphine's hideout, but explain me the simple things.'

'You mean you know nothing of Alduin?' Esbern asked, almost worried.

'No, it's not like that. It's just that all Nords seem to know Alduin a little. I was born in Morrowind, and I have lived there almost my entire life. You speak of prophecies, myths, legends… It's those things I do not know.'

'Maybe we should wait to get out of here. We don't know who could be spying on us.'

'I know, I know. Nobody. Go on. What can you tell me about Alduin?'

'Not a lot I haven't already told you. Alduin is the World-Eater. He heralds the End of Days.'

'And how would this End of Days work?'

'Alduin devours the souls of the dead. This is what the legend says. With the end if all beings, Alduin would acquire the power he would need to end this world.'

'He sounds a more lot similar to me than it should,' observed the Assassin.

'In what way, Dragonborn?'

'Because he devours the souls of dead mortals, and I devour the souls of dead immortals. And stop checking your belt, Esbern, you haven't forgotten anything,' hissed the Assassin. 'I've had enough of your paranoia already.'


	3. Reunion

'Esbern, wake up.'

'What…? Oh, I'm sorry, Dragonborn. Do you need me?'

'We're in Riverwood.'

'What?'

'I said we're in Riverwood. I know, Shadowmere gallops fast. Get down, it's better if we don't stick outside.'

Azrael jumped off the back of the horse and helped the old man do the same. Esbern had slept for almost the entirety of journey, resting his head on the Assassin's shoulder. He had probably fallen asleep without even trying. No big surprise there; the man was tired to say the least. They had talked for a while after departing, but Esbern didn't make it past noon of that day. He was already slumbering like a bear in hibernation by that time. The Dunmer hadn't paid much attention to his sudden silence until the man had started snorting quietly. Shadowmere had behaved well, and they arrived in Riverwood at dusk.

'What do we do now, Dragonborn? Where's Delphine?'

'In the inn. I'll go in, you wait outside.'

'You're afraid the Thalmor might have found out where she hides?'

'No, I'm not paranoid like the lot of you are. Still, it doesn't hurt to be careful.'

The two marched towards the tavern. The Sun was slowly setting behind the mountains, dyeing everything orange. The wooden walls of the houses, the stone-slab road, the thatched roofs… everything had that warm tint. The city was mostly quiet. Whispers in the streets. The barking of a dog. Azrael guessed it was the same dog he had encountered the first day he had set foot there. After escaping Helgen. It seemed an eternity had passed. To think that a year before he was someone else entirely still made him think on how strange life is sometimes. Back then a simple farmer. Now walking into the inn alone and casting focused glances around to check for threats was even more normal that tending to a field was.

However, those few months had been enough to change not only him, but Skyrim as well. When he had arrived, the civil war was just an echo. Something that was present, but few really cared about. Patrols slaughtering each other in forgotten observation points, small groups fighting for advantageous position and so forth. After a rumored massacre in the gorges West of the Whiterun Plains, no big battle had been fought and no war act had taken place, but now something was moving again. Azrael had noticed it only by riding by Riverwood. He had spotted two patrols of the Stormcloaks and a mounted watch of Whiterun sentinels watching over the border with Eastmarch. On top of that, he saw a hanged man strung by the neck in the outskirts of Whiterun.

Even there, in Riverwood, everything had changed. Very slightly and almost imperceivably, but it had. It was still dusk, but everyone was already barred in their houses. Some doors had additional planks of wood keeping them closed, and Azrael guessed some were even barred from the inside. When he was there last, returning from Solitude, the doors of Sven's mother and Faendal were grazed and broken. Now they were both repaired. Roughly and with very little sense of art, but they were repaired. The guards also used to have a tent outside the town walls. Now they didn't. The tent was safe within the perimeter, and two watchers stood guarding over the street West. Even in the air there was a something that smelt like trouble. The wind itself carried the scent of war.

Even then, Azrael was neutral. He was saving the things others were fighting over. He walked into the inn, thinking of that and laughing at the stupidity of it. Delphine looked at him and ran to him immediately. She seemed well rested, which was surprisingly pleasing to see. Almost three weeks of break, no matter how tense they had been, had done her good.

'You're finally here,' she said. 'I was getting worried something had happened and that you hadn't been able to inform me. How are you?'

'Quite good,' replied the Assassin with a casual shrug. 'Risked my neck three times, got shot with a poisoned arrow, almost got killed by a tendril of darkness, almost got killed again by a rock falling on my neck and a Daedric Prince sacked me after only a week of service. And you, how are you?'

'You're joking, I hope.'

'Not one bit, I'm afraid. And refrain from telling me anything. You're not my mother.'

'But you are the only person who can save this world…' she mumbled. 'Were you out of our mind? Risking your life like that? What will happen if you die?'

'Well, I didn't. That's that. Anyhow, I've brought you something that could help you forgive me for my… extremely immature and irrational behavior.'

'I hate to say it, but I've missed you wicked jests,' she said, her face relaxing. A weak smile appeared on her lips. 'What's this present?'

'Your old colleague, obviously. I promised it.'

'Really? He's safe? Where is he?'

'Right outside.'

'Mara's mercy, then he's safe!' she said, walking off towards her room. 'Come on, we have a lot to discuss.'

Azrael stole her an amused glance and stepped back towards the door. He opened it and waved two fingers. Delphine quickly gazed around, but in the inn, there were only Orgnar and Embry. The latter was drunk, as always. He wouldn't have remembered one thing by the next day. Orgnar was her smallest concern. The man was loyal to her, and when she said something was secret he treated it as if it never even existed. If she needed to leave the place, then the tavern would have been his. She wouldn't have regretted leaving the inn to him. She'd have felt bad about it though, after the many years they had been together managing that small business.

She was still lost in thought when the old man entered. Azrael peaked out of the tavern and made sure nobody was watching before shutting the door behind him. Meanwhile, Delphine looked at her comrade, holding her breath. It had been twenty-six years since they last saw each other. Back then, Delphine was a young and beautiful warrior and Esbern a man in his late fifties with a knack for thinking of impossible theories and scavenging hidden myths for clues. The older look suited them both a lot better. Delphine, who had always been a tense person, looked like one a lot more with those twenty years leaving traces on her face. Esbern, the lore master obsessed with legends and folktales, looked even more comfortable with himself in that bald, wrinkled, elderly form.

'Delphine!' Esbern greeted her. He stammered a bit. 'I… it's good to see you. It's been… a long time.'

'It's good to see you, too, Esbern,' she replied, hiding her relief behind a formal tone. 'It's been too long, old friend. Too long. Well, then, you made it, safe and sound. Good. Come on, I have a place we can talk. Orgnar, hold down the bar for a minute, will you?'

'For the lot we have here?' he joked, pointing at the empty chairs. 'Yeah, sure.'

'Thanks.'

Delphine pointed at the door to her room. Esbern walked in front of her while gazing around. The woman and the Assassin approached one another.

'Let's see what he has to say,' she said.

'Are you sure his information will prove of any use?'

'If he doesn't know something about the Dragons coming back, then I can't think of anyone else that will. Still, I have known him for years. He looks a bit frenzied with something. I bet it's because he has to tell us something very important.'

'Fingers crossed,' whispered the Assassin in a sigh, while closing the door of Delphine's room behind him.

She opened the wardrobe and opened the clause that led down to her hideout. The Assassin eyed Esbern looking down the stairs, glancing at everything even as he went down the steps. The hideout hadn't changed, and it likely hadn't for the last twenty-five years. Smuggling something big inside there would have attracted some inevitable attention. The mean case of paranoia all Blades seemed to have had surely prevented Delphine from even thinking of it.

'Now then,' she said, going to the other side of the table and putting her clenched fists down, as per usual. 'I assume you know about…'

'Oh yes!' confirmed Esbern. 'Dragonborn! This changes everything, of course. There's no time to lose. We must locate… let me show you. I know I had it, here it is,' he said, putting down a dust-covered tone on the table and quickly turning its pages. 'Give me… just a moment…'

'Esbern, what…'

'Here it is!' exclaimed the old man. 'Come, let me show you.'

'Annals of the Dragonguard,' the Assassin read aloud. 'It's a map of the Reach, right?'

'Yes,' confirmed Esbern. 'You see, right here. Sky Haven Temple, constructed around one of the main Akaviri military camps in the Reach, during their conquest of Skyrim.'

'Did he mention any of this in your journey?' Delphine asked Azrael, elbowing him. 'Do you know what he's talking about?'

'Not a…'

'Hush!' Esbern cut him off, before returning to his explanation. 'This is where they built Alduin's Wall, to set down in stone all their accumulated Dragonlore. A hedge against the forgetfulness of centuries. A wise and foresighted policy, in the event. Despite the far-reaching fame of Alduin's Wall at the time, one of the wonders of the ancient world, its location was lost'.

'And what are you getting at?' she asked.

'You mean… You don't mean to say you haven't heard of Alduin's Wall?' he asked back, a bit surprised. 'Either of you?'

'Let's pretend we haven't. What's Alduin's Wall and what does it have to do with stopping the Dragons?'

'Alduin's Wall was where the ancient Blades recorded all they knew of Alduin and his return. Part history, part prophecy. Its location has been lost for centuries, but I've found it again. Not lost, you see, just forgotten. The Blades archives held so many secrets, and I was only able to save a few scraps.'

'So you think that Alduin's Wall will tell us how to defeat Alduin?'

 _They complement each other quite well…_ Azrael thought. _The overly-practical warrior maiden and the old, theoretical man who spends the vast majority of his time speculating. United by their beloved paranoia, nothing will ever stop them on their quest to save me from myself._

'Yes, well… There's no guarantee, of course.'

'Sky Haven Temple it is, then. I knew you'd have something for us, Esbern.'

'Is there any place I could rest, Delphine?' asked the old man.

'Yes, I'll arrange a room for you. Ask the barman and tell him you're my guest. He'll set up the room for you.'

'Thanks, Delphine.'

The old man walked back up the stairs, yawning, and entered the main room of the inn. The Assassin looked at Delphine, who looked back at him. She breathed deeply, with an eyebrow arched, and looked at the open book Esbern had left on the table.

'I know the area of the Reach that Esbern's talking about,' she said, 'near what's now known as Karthspire, in the Karth River canyon.'

'Right in the middle of the Reach,' Azrael commented. 'Oh joy…'

'We have no other option, as I'm sure you'll agree. The Reach is dangerous, and the Forsworn are everywhere these days. Still, we need to get there. We have little chance otherwise. It's our only lead.'

'I guess so.'

'We can either travel together or split to get there. You call, Azrael.'

'We'll split. I can't carry both of you on Shadowmere either way, and I could use some freedom in the meantime.'

'Might be safer to travel separately, as well. We'll attract less attention. Don't worry, I'll get Esbern there in one piece. We'll get to Karthspire as fast as we can.'

'That sounds good,' he commented, sitting in a nearby chair. He rubbed his eyes and shook his head, as if trying to wake up. 'While we're at it, what's happened while I was away?'

Delphine heaved a deep sigh and stole meaningful glance at him. She sat on the table in the centre of the room, beside the opened book, and dangled her legs. The Assassin found that sight quite entertaining. A woman in her late forties, sitting on a table and swinging her legs like a child. And that woman wasn't just an ordinary woman. She was Delphine the Blade, or Lady Doubt as he called her. It was incredible how the presence of the Assassin alone could make her relax a bit.

'Lots has been going on,' she said. 'I've been praying for your return every day. If I didn't know about the prophecies, I'd still joke about the End of Days being nigh.'

'Meaning?'

'This place is dipping straight into utter chaos, Azrael. The war is still on, and the aggressions become more and more frequent with every passing day. With guards and soldier busy tending to their enemies, bandits and rogues have more space then every before. Some days ago, I heard a message from Whiterun, saying that Balgruuf is hiring mercenaries to protect the roads and the merchants. The constant flow of merchandise in the city has stopped, and the whole economy of the city in collapsing on itself. Orgnar and myself are not living our best days as well. Lucan was supposed to receive two deliveries, but both ended up missing. The convoy transporting one of those was found two days ago at the bottom of a ditch. And if that wasn't enough, two farms have been burned down by Dragons.'

'Dragons?' asked Azrael, glacial. 'They never attacked infrastructures before.'

'They have started recently. One attacked Falkreath, and they wasted two hundred arrows before managing to drive the beast away. One is rumored to have assailed Winterhold, but we receive little news from the cities on the opposite war side.'

'If only they gave up with that senseless war of theirs…'

'They fighting for the supremacy over Skyrim,' Delphine reminded him. 'That's a big price.'

'Really?' Azrael said, laughing grimly. 'If they don't stop, there will be nothing left to fight over.'

'You really don't understand the way Nords think, do you?'

'It isn't "thinking", it's just reacting to something. If something happens, they just follow whatever instinct arises in them. And to give those instincts a semi-reasonable appearance, they gave them names. Principles, codes, honor. That's not reason.'

'Listen, I know you spit on every ideal,' conceded Delphine, 'and I know that what is happening isn't really in your mindset. If you can't understand, try to accept it, at least.'

'But I did,' whispered the Elf. 'Do you know how you'd tell if I accept you or not?'

'No,' she answered, after a moment's thought.

'Whether you have a blade in your heart or not.'

'Empty threats.'

Delphine regretted saying those words the very moment the Assassin's eyes turned towards her. They flared red, and the same ice-cold glare she knew well made her reconsider. Not that she wasn't correct. For most people, that would have surely been the case. Not for him though, and for two reasons. Reasons that he didn't explain right away. He started on a more cryptic tone.

'They're not,' he said. 'Still, a point to you.'

'Why is that?'

'Well, on one hand you were wrong. I do kill everyone that I don't accept. However, I accept a lot of things. That's where my mindset and yours don't match.'

'And how would you describe your attitude at forgiving others?'

'Well…' he whispered, nodding. His gaze darkened and his eyes sparkled, which often happened when he was thinking. 'Hard. I'd say that others' fate concerns me. Theirs sins do not.'

'A compelling argument,' she commented, raising. 'Come, let's go outside for a bit. Some fresh air might do us good.'

'Ladies first.'

They went up the stairs, getting back into the main room of the inn. Orgnar was cleaning some tankards, and stole a sidelong glance at the Assassin. Delphine's assurance that he could be trusted never convinced him fully. He was used to huge brutes who looked like trouble, but him? He looked worse. Once, a person like him had spent a night there. They found a corpse of another guest the day after, peacefully deceased in the room he had rented. However, Azrael never gave them any trouble. He didn't stir any, at the very least.

'Orgnar,' Delphine called him. 'We're going out for a moment. That old man that came here, is he okay?'

'Yep, settled down in his chamber a moment ago.'

'Thank you. See you in a bit.'

'See you.'

She opened the door and got out, followed right behind by her shady friend. Orgnar didn't take his eyes off him until the door was closely shut. Delphine hadn't told him who he was, and he couldn't link that Elf clad in crimson and black with the silent Dark Elf they housed a day after the destruction of Helgen. He got back to his own problems, and forgot about the Dunmer for a moment.

Meanwhile, the Dragonborn and the Blade strolled around the empty streets of Riverwood. The dog kept barking in the distance, and a voice occasionally reached their ears; but aside from that, there weren't any signs of life. They were an odd pair, but harmonious in their own way. Surely no one would have believed it if someone had foretold that encounter. The Last Dragonborn alongside his protector, who was also one of his most trusted friends and adviser, wandering around at night in the streets of a small town, talking about anything that came to mind. They jumped from subject to subject that didn't have any logical connection between one another. Strange, and perhaps lucky, that they went along so well as friends. Azrael was perfect in his role because of his lack of prejudices and principles; however, he needed someone to remind him of how the world around perceived his actions. None better than Delphine to fit that place. A stubborn, headstrong woman that managed to stand up to him in conversations about tactics and strategies. Cold reason versus experience.

'I still can't believe it,' said Delphine, apparently serious. 'I'm a Blade. I'm sworn to protect the Dragonborn, no matter the cost. And I'm defending the Master of the Thieves Guild and a member of the Dark Brotherhood.'

'Listener of the Dark Brotherhood,' Azrael pointed out.

'If someone had told me this would happen, I wouldn't have believed him.'

'Same for me, but now it's normal. We've both got used to it. Still, it's interesting.'

'I can't really disagree. You know,' she said, crossing her arms, 'I always imagined this different. When I heard a Dragonborn had come, I imagined someone completely different from you. Maybe a Nord, a huge mountain of meat and muscles, like most of the warriors here. Instead I found you. And I'm not sad, either. You're a lot more like me than some Nord might be. In truth, I'm thankful someone like you came along.'

'Life plays lots of tricks on us. Fortunately, they're not always mean.'

'I do hope the journey we'll undertake won't be a mean trick. I trust Esbern, mind you, but this whole thing is very confused. The overall condition of Skyrim isn't going to help either, I'm afraid. We can't trust anyone, or rely on anyone for help. We're alone in this journey. Well, not alone. I've got you.'

'Never took you for a sentimentalist.'

'I've never been one, you're right. And I hope I'll not become one.'

They kept strolling for a little bit more. Only as the Moons reached their highest, they got back to the inn.


	4. A Woman's Whim

_Let's see… It's four days from Riverwood to Karthspire. It took me two days to get to Solitude. A day to get back… Fine, I've got time 'till dawn._

Azrael did his calculation rapidly. What worried him was something else: It was just after dusk, two or three hours before midnight. A guy cladded in a black armor, with his face hidden by a hood and a face mask, a bow on his back, a dagger and a sword by his side, was going to ask if the Jarl was still awake. Even in theory it sounded ridiculous. He could almost hear the laughter of the guard. Still, he couldn't wait. At midday of the next day, at most, he needed to leave. He couldn't keep the two Blades waiting. They had the priority, but there was no reason to waste the extra time he had.

Solitude was dark. The braziers and the torches carried by the guards on patrol were the only things that gave off some light. The Moons weren't in the sky, although Masser was waxing a little bit. Not nearly enough to give off significant light. And aside from the guards, nobody whatsoever walked in the streets. It was a bit like Riverwood, but the alienating feeling was strengthened by the width of the streets and the height of the walls around him. He couldn't think of a reason why someone would prefer not to go out, but fear was enough. Not everybody went out of the house armed to the teeth and with the combat expertise he had. A common thief was enough to scare most people away.

But Azrael was everything except most people.

The garden in front of the Blue Palace was slowly dying. Frostfall was at its end, and Sun's Dusk was near. Winter was nigh. Even in the South, the rain carried along small snowflakes. The winds were changing directions and the cold gales coming from the North were lowering the temperature significantly. A new thing for the Assassin. He had never lived through a serious, chilling winter. He was unsure how it would turn out. Maybe he would have liked it, maybe he would have hated it. It didn't matter. What mattered in that moment was how to convince the two guards standing at the door of the Palace to let him in.

'Hold right there,' one of the two soldiers warned him, putting a hand of the handle of the sword. 'Only burglars and vampires creep around after dark, so which are you?'

'Neither. I'm here to see the Jarl.'

'Nice joke, buddy. Piss off.'

'Could you at least bring her a message from me?'

'And from who? We don't know you, we've never seen you. And the Jarl is sleeping, so… Nay, I don't think we will.'

'Am I just beating my head against the wall?' asked the Assassin, sighing.

'Aye. You are,' replied the one of the left. 'Now shove off.'

The two soldiers looked as the figure casted a last glance at them both, turned around and walked away, pacing swiftly. Ten seconds and not even a slip of the cloak remained in sight. The guard on the right stepped forward, searching for him, but saw nothing. He stole a glance at his comrade, who shrugged and leaned against the wall with a snort.

'Arrogant bastard,' he grunted. 'Thinks he can see the Jarl. Yeah, sure, and I'd like a warm bed right about now also.'

'I wonder if we didn't anger him,' replied his pal. 'We could have inquired more.'

'Look, if he had important business he would have had some kind of written document to show. And he could have just as easily talked about it with Falk. He asked specifically for the Jarl.'

'Hope you're right. You see what he donned?'

'Aye, some kind of rogue suit. Never trust dudes wrapped in those rags. They usually mean trouble.'

'Should we worry about him?'

'If you really want to, send Hakit up to have a check. If there are any opened windows, close them.'

'I'm off.'

* * *

 _One funny thing about this…_ thought the Assassin, grabbing a stone brick that emerged from the wall. _One really funny thing about this…_ He pulled up, searching for a surface to place his feet on. He kept climbing up, with a sneer behind the mask. _Nobody asked me to do any of this. I hope it won't be for nothing, but it's certainly entertaining. Warrior, murderer, thief and now climber. My curriculum expands rapidly as of late._

The window-sill was close, but there weren't any grips. He breathed deeply, tested all the muscles he needed and then sprang upwards with every single bit of energy he could muster. His left hand almost slipped on the stone, but it worked out decently. He dragged himself up, grabbing on the sides of the window and placing both feet on the window-sill. He looked down, but there were only two thousand meters of void and nothing else. A misstep meant a horrible death. He then looked inside the window, and saw the light of a candle.

 _Thanks to the Daedra…_ he said to himself with relief. _She's still awake._

He took off his hood and the face mask with one hand. He gathered his raven-black hair as best as he could and looked his reflection in the window. His face would have always been scarred and rough, he was just checking there weren't any blood stains on it or anything like that. The extremes basics of etiquette still applied, no matter the relationship. Elisif wasn't Karliah or Delphine, who had seen him butchering enemies with ease. She was a noblewoman, who had seen blood for the first time when her husband died. Azrael never told her his theory of those events, but he believed that the actual cruelty of the scene had scared her way more than the death of her husband did. He couldn't allow himself to be blunt with her. It always required a certain share of patience, strategy and tactic to get along with her. Thus far.

Azrael hit the glass of the window three times.

The dry sound resounded in the room. Elisif was looking towards the wall, although she wasn't really looking at it. She was deep in though. Who wasn't in those times? Several things, both good and bad, were going through her head. When she heard the sound, she got scared. Her eyes were already closing, and the sudden noise waked her up. She looked at the window, and saw the black silhouette of a humanoid, blurred by the thick glass.

She turned around, lunging her hand on the side of the bed and getting up, but stopped mid-movement. She looked back, observed that shape better. A black cape or cloak; coal-black, long hair falling on his chest; two red eyes, shimmering through the window, but very well known to her. She couldn't see the gaze coming from them, but imagined it very well.

'Azrael…' she muttered.

'Got that right,' he whispered in response. 'Now, would you mind opening this thing? There's a one mile void from here to the sea. That's not a journey I'd like to take.'

She immediately stood up and went closer to the window. Caution would have demanded otherwise, but she had no doubts. The appearance may have been similar, the voice could have been feigned, but the tone… Who would have spoken to a Jarl with that kind of frankness? The insolence, the glacial note, the sarcasm resounding in that phrase was his alone. Only Azrael could have said something like that to her.

She opened the window. Just as she thought, Azrael was crouching behind the glass. His grim grin was already on his lips, and the mocking gaze sparkling from his eyes. Without asking permission or anything, he thrust his legs forward and landed on the wooden floor. Very close to her.

Too close to her.

He was thinking about simple things, like that he needed to let his cloak dry out somewhere, when she grabbed his head and pressed her lips on his. He barely had enough time to raise an eyebrow before she backed off.

It had been swift. Unexpected. The Assassin was used to inconveniences. He dealt with new threats quickly, but that was unexpected in a way that left him speechless. Without even looking back at Elisif he stopped, paying attention to his own sensations. He licked his own lips, sensing a strange and alien flavor on them. However, his mind was still. Cold, calm. Nothing that disrupted the order he had built through months of change.

Red eyes blazed. Azrael rose his gaze and fixed it right in the pupils of the young woman, who immediately withdrew her gaze and began staring at the floor. She brought her hands together on her lap, and the Assassin caught a glimpse of her biting her own lip. Still, he couldn't understand if she had done something calculated or if it had been a momentary compulsion that she didn't pose resistance to.

Azrael looked at her with a bit more attention. He hadn't had the chance. She was a bit different, a bit more natural than when they usually met. Her hair was a bit ruffled and she wore no makeup. She also didn't wear her usual, fancy clothes and was clad in a simpler, blue nightgown. Even though it didn't look that elaborate on her, that dress was still quite extravagant. People get accustomed to everything, from living as a slave to living as a princess.

Once he was done with his analysis, the Assassin returned to more immediate things.

'Well,' he whispered, taking off his cloak and putting on a nearby chair, 'that was awkward.'

'I'm sorry,' she murmured back, raising her gaze a little.

'Never mind.'

'No, truly, I'm sorry…'

Azrael stepped towards her and grabbed her wrists, moving away her hands one from the other and keeping them that way. He remained in that very position, motionlessly, until she rose her gaze into his. Her eyes flickered, but before she could lower her head again the left hand of the Assassin moved and held her chin exactly where it was.

'It makes no difference whether you're sorry or not. Period. I'm not angry at you. You just let go, alright? You're unbearable when you're tense, know that?'

'We always apology when we make a mistake,' she replied, while he freed her of his grip. 'It's a rule that makes us live well.'

'But we only need to apology when our mistake has done harm to others.'

'Maybe I was just saying sorry to myself, then.'

Azrael leaned on the wall, near the window, and looked at the woman grabbing the skirt and sitting on the side of the bed. He thought over her words for a second. They had been the first words with an introspective meaning he had ever heard from her. Her tone was also a bit colder, not energetic and lively in that strange, childish way of hers.

'Damn,' the Assassin tittered, 'we've not even greeted one another and we're already down to brooding and ethics. I wonder if every Elf with every woman does the same.'

'I don't know if any Elf is as intelligent as you are,' she replied, crossing her legs.

'And I don't think any Nord is as open-minded as you are.'

'Me?' she asked, in a kind of sad tone. 'Open-minded?'

'Yes, you are. What about that?'

'The don't call me Elisif the Open-minded. They call me Elisif the Fair.'

'Fair enough…' he joked, pulling out a laughter from her throat. 'But then again, that is because they say what they see of you.'

'If I'm that beautiful, I must be equally stupid.'

'You're naive, not stupid,' sighed the Assassin, not understanding where all that melancholy came from. His unkind sincerity alone seemed to give her back some spirit. 'And how in Oblivion did you sink in those thoughts?'

'I don't know. Since you left. Azrael, are all women stupid?'

'No idea. The ones I met are at least clever, some straight up shrewd. However, I assure you that female Dunmer aren't, I've met ones that were much smarter than me. But really, how did you sink in those thoughts? Last time I've heard someone saying something like this he threw himself out of the window two minutes later.'

'Why do you grin?' she asked. 'Maybe I'm also about to jump out of the window.'

'I'd sooner slash your throat then let you do that. Besides, you're not serious.'

'I am.'

'No, you're not.'

'I am.'

'You're not.'

'I…'

Azrael stood up and unfastened the bow and the two blades, putting them on the ground quickly and then stepping towards her. He was unarmed, he couldn't have done anything deadly to her. He leaped, far, and landed beside her. He extended his right arm and reached for her shoulder.

The two fell over on the bed beside one another, laughing like madmen.

'You knew!'

'Quiet…' whispered the Assassin, still sniggering. 'It's better if no one hears anything.'

'You knew,' she repeated. 'How?'

'Come on, that wasn't so subtle. You didn't need to wait for me to kill yourself. Second, you're not the type. Third, your gaze. You don't know how to lie. You just can't. Your eyes give it away.'

'And how are you supposed to lie?'

The Assassin slowly reached for her with his arms, grabbed her back and drew her closer. She was warm and soft, the cloth of the dress smooth and pleasing to the touch. Elisif immediately put her head on his chest and closed her eyes, while he began caressing her hair with his left hand.

'You know,' he began, 'I was originally a servant of Mephala. Know her? It's the Daedric Prince of sex, murder and, guess what, lies. Don't give that look,' he said with fake exasperation when she shifted her head and looked him worried in the eyes, 'all Dunmer worship her, like you'd do with those Aedra of yours you call gods. Anyhow, one day she ordered me to make something special for her. Something that would have appeased her and brought great glory to both her and me. She refused, however, to let me know what I was to do until after I accepted. So, I said yes,' he told, while Elisif waited, looking at him with bated breath. 'After all, who would defy a Daedric Prince? She ordered me to kill my best friend and leader of her cult. I was, understandably, quite shocked at her request. She consoled me, and said it was for the best. It was for a greater good. So, I went over to him, and said the Lady was waiting for him. It took a little convincing, but he came along. I deceived him. Once in the chamber…'

Elisif suddenly pushed with both her arms against his chest and freed herself of his hands. Her chestnut hair fell messily on both sides of her head, and her eyes were wide open. The thing that disturbed her the most was the cruel sneer on the Assassin's face.

'What did you do?' she screamed, a bit too loud.

'I did nothing,' he calmly answered, his gaze impenetrable and his tone glacial. 'However, I was telling you how you're supposed to lie.'

'And how were you doing that?'

'Simply by lying. Aside from the description of Mephala, which was still a bit too simplistic, none of what I said was true.'

Elisif remained motionless for another few moments. Azrael thought that in that position, resting on her bent legs and her hands stretched a bit forward, she looked like a cat preparing for a leap. The thought mildly amused him, because the truly amusing thing was her face. She was absolutely stunned, and looked as if she couldn't move. The Assassin didn't do anything, and his patience was rewarded: after a few more seconds, a faint smile began appearing on her lips.

'I hate it when you do that,' she said, slowly approaching him against and putting her head on his chest again. 'Those are the things that make me feel stupid.'

'And here I was, talking about your open-mindedness. You're so stubborn. What will convince you?'

'Of what?'

'That you're naive, not stupid.'

'But I believed a random story you made up right now! How can an intelligent person fall for that?'

'Well, for one, I'm an excellent liar,' he explained. 'And second, you believed it not because you couldn't understand it was a lie, but because you blindly trusted me. That's naivety in a nutshell.'

'So I'm not stupid?'

'Yes, you are,' Azrael hissed, stealing a flaming, amused glance at her. 'Maybe if I concur you'll shut up.'

'Don't toy with me!'

'Oh, toying now? Me?' he laughed. 'Women and their whims… I was under the impression you've been playing with me for the entire time. Right when I entered you started. By the way, how did that idea of faking suicidal attitudes came from?'

'Just came up in that moment. I was serious until a moment before.'

'Guessed as much.'

The two stopped talking. Azrael started stroking her hair again, while Elisif kept huddling against him. The two breathed deeply, and Elisif began to murmur lowly, closing her eyes. Azrael felt her shaking a bit, but it wasn't for tension or what else. She was, in a way, purring. Just like a cat. _A cat… Who would have thought?_ he said to himself. _There are indeed some that associate every person with an animal. She moved like one and behaves like one. I wonder what animal I am…_

There's no telling how long they spent there, doing practically nothing. They certainly didn't know. Time bent and warped, becoming difficult to perceive. The complete peace they had achieved rendered the very concept of time meaningless. They could have sunk into a plane of Oblivion in that very moment and the perception of the world wouldn't have changed that much. Hands intertwined, bodies close and both sensing the other near them. Azrael felt her warmth, smelt the scent of the perfume she had put on that morning. Elisif smelt the strange whiff of the Elf. A mix, really, and not so pleasing, but she liked it.

'What have you been doing?' she asked suddenly.

'Finally severed ties with that organization I told you about last time. Now I'm back with the investigation on the Dragons. While my partners settle things, I managed to come here.'

'And how is the investigation going?'

'Relatively smooth. No more Altmer running behind us, at least.'

'Elenwen has become more nervous with each passing day,' she told. 'She said too many things are slipping out of ours hands. She claims one of her patrols of Justiciar has gone missing. They were supposed to eradicate a Talos worshipping group near Whiterun, but they haven't had word from them since. They have sent another patrol to check with the local authorities.'

'No way that's going to end well. War… With everything that could have happened, a war needed to break out.'

'And what would the solution be?'

'I don't know… Cut the throat of every Altmer ruler maybe? That would work.'

'You could try that.'

'Sorry if I'm busy saving the world from certain doom.'

'I didn't…'

'I know you didn't,' laughed the Assassin, kissing her on the forehead. 'You never do.'

Elisif was the only one he had trusted with his Dragonborn identity so far. She had digested that amazingly quickly, considering only a few weeks had gone by.

'How long will you be staying here?' she asked.

'Till dawn. Must get back to my other colleagues afterwards.'

'Then listen for a moment,' she said, shifting her arm and putting her hand on his cheek. 'We've been acquaintances for some time…'

'Really?'

'Enough with sarcasm,' she hissed, chuckling. 'You've had your fun. I know you hate being serious, but do me a favor and try. Listen, we've known each other for some time. We've become close. Just look at us right now, we're secretly lying in my bed after midnight. You, a killer by trade and me, the Jarl of the capital of Skyrim. There are some that are not allowed to approach my throne more than a yard, and you just sneak in here.'

'So what?' he asked, glacial. 'Should I thank you for allowing me to talk with you?'

'Well…'

'If you think being a Jarl makes you special… Stop thinking, 'cause that is really stupid.'

'I'm sorry. I… You know, I was raised to think this way and when I married they taught me to think I was special, something more than the others. I still don't know how I can with you beside me. Anyway, I wanted to decide where we stand in our relationship.'

Azrael's eyes sparkled bright red. His lips warped, taking the shape of a sneer. 'Beg your pardon?' he asked, laughing under his breath and grinning mockingly.

'You heard right,' she answered. 'What are we? Friends, allies, lovers…?'

'You were the one who kissed me.'

'I know, and I'd do that again. Don't make faces,' she quickly said, before the Assassin's eyes finished widening, 'and listen to me. There was a reason why I did that. I want to know you better, but not as a friend or anything else. I'd like to know you as a lover.'

'And where would the difference be?'

'You see? Even you don't know everything.'

'I most certainly don't. The difference is that I asked, instead of saying that it's out of the question. I'm considering your option, as I'd do with everything. However, I don't really fancy being the secret flirter of the High Queen, if you don't mind.'

'You'll get used to it.'

'True. Still, you haven't explained me why.'

'Knowing you as a friend is interesting, very interesting even. However, words are not enough for me. I was raised to value actions, not words. That's the reason.'

'You love me?'

She was taken by surprise by that sudden move. She just shrugged, as much as the position allowed her. 'I don't know. Maybe, and maybe I don't. I've just began to know myself, and I can't know well what I feel. And you, Azrael? Do you love me?'

'No, I don't.'

Elisif widened her eyes, and looked as Azrael restrained from laughing so loud the entire Blue Palace would have waked up. It took her a bit of time to recover.

'That was blunt…' she commented, with a gloomy tone. 'Did you have to be that direct?'

'No, but I wanted to. Want to know where we stand? That's my answer. Even so, your offer is plausible.'

'What does that even mean?' she chuckled.

Azrael pulled her closed and kissed her on the lips.

'This,' he whispered. 'Interpret it as you like.'

'As you will,' she said, kissing him back again. 'I know what you'd define this: A woman's whim. You know what? I don't care.'

'Smart lady. A wise guy once said that whims last longer than ever-lasting passions.'

'Who?'

'Never mind. I'll tell you another time, but only if I really have to.'

Azrael was seen going out of Solitude at daybreak, headed for the Reach. Jarl Elisif slept until late, and as soon as she got out a guard asked her who was the other person that talked in her room. She replied that it had been a messenger, with an urgent missive to deliver to her. For that whole day, Falk Firebeard noticed a faint smirk that never left her Jarl's face. He asked himself many times what had happened, but never found a convincing answer. Nobody, except for the Assassin and the Jarl of Solitude, know what happened.


	5. All but Forgotten

Delphine ducked and pulled Esbern down, behind the half-cover. A shard of ice and two arrows hissed just above their heads.

'This is of no use,' groaned Delphine, spying through a small hole in the wood. 'We shouldn't have engaged them.'

'We didn't know they were so many,' replied Esbern. 'We just back off. Slowly.'

'The Forsworn might let us, but the Hagraven won't.'

'Then we draw her at a distance where these men can't help her.'

Delphine looked again at the enemies aiming arrows at them, and then nodded. There weren't any other options. If they made it past the door of the camp they would have been fine. The problem was getting there. In between them and their safety were three meters of exposed ground. It would have taken them time. Not too much, but enough for the Forsworn to shoot them in the back.

'Okay, I peak my head out and make them waste projectiles,' decided Delphine. 'As soon as they do it, we run for it.'

Esbern gave her a nod. His hand flashed green, and a viscous layer of magical light coated his entire body. A protective spell. Delphine didn't like it. The man was old, but not stupid. If he had taken the time to put up a protection hex, then he presumed some shots would reach him. It might have been just precaution, paranoid as he was, but Delphine was too. She took a deep breath.

And then peaked out, ducking again after a single moment.

As planned and hoped, a hail of arrows and two burning orbs of magical fire went by right above their heads. The two Blades stood up and ran for it. Delphine was faster, and got to the door quicker. Esbern was right behind her, but still a bit too slow. An archer in the distance nocked another arrow and released. The projectile struck Esbern in the forearm.

He stumbled and fell to the ground, sliding past the door with a whimper of pain. Delphine grabbed him and dragged him behind cover just as other two arrows reached them. They stuck in the ground, exactly where Esbern was a moment before. One would have hit his leg and the other his back. He would have probably died on the spot. Not that he was alive and well, anyway. He writhed and jerked around on the floor non-stop.

Delphine took a bottle from her traveling bag and uncorked it. She poured the mixture down the old man's throat, who was so shaken by spasms he coughed out a dangerous quantity of it. Delphine cursed, fearing she would have needed another one, but Esbern calmed just enough to regain his composure.

'It hurts…' he lamented.

'I'm going to take it out,' she said to him. 'You need to mend it immediately after with magic.'

'I know…' groaned the man, 'Do it, before the potion stops working.'

She ripped out the arrow and held Esbern, who kicked and trembled. Blood flowed off, dripping down her fingers. He then bent on the bleeding wound. A weak, warm light flashed in his hands, and the tissues started healing. The snapped bone restored, the muscle fibers intertwined and the skin around stretched to cover the hole. The injury was very bad. Delphine thought that someone else might have fainted, but not Esbern. After what he had been through in those twenty-five years she was only mildly surprised. The stories he had told her on the road were breathtaking.

But now it wasn't the time for stories anymore.

'Are you well, Esbern?'

'I can walk, I think. Stand back…'

The man's hand sparkled purple. Delphine rolled her eyes. She never liked crossing paths with Daedric entities, even the insignificant ones that her mage friends summoned. The sound and the dark color of the dimensional rift opening signaled the arrival of the Atronach. A fire one.

The flame demon hovered and aimed for the enemies, swinging its arms and throwing firebolts at the adversaries. Arrows hissed and reached it, but most of them just went through the flames and burned without doing any real damage. That was the trick. You either aim for the solid joints, or you give up. Most of a Fire Atronach's body is made of flame, and any material projectile goes through without doing any harm.

Delphine looked, until Esbern grabbed her forearm.

'Delphine, look at what they are shooting at it.'

The Blade looked, narrowing her eyes. Arrows mainly, and a fiery bolt occasionally. She got what Esbern was thinking, and she too wondered what happened. Initially, the things that flew in the air had been two flame projectiles at a time; more importantly, the Hagraven had kept blasting a constant hail of ice spears, which were not coming anymore.

'Some of them stopped shooting,' she said. 'You're right. Any ideas?'

'Not until we look… Delphine, they stopped firing altogether.'

The Blade peaked out and focused on her hearing. The Atronach was advancing, meaning it had lost sight of the target. The continuous sparking it made rendered hearing difficult, but she could just barely catch something else. It was the sound of blades clanging, or something very close to it. She turned and looked behind the cover, at her comrade.

'Esbern, I'm going to see what's happening. You follow along when you can, all right?'

'Go, Delphine.'

She unsheathed the curved, Akaviri-styled sword of the Blades. That blade was the only things she had been able to keep of her old attire. With the weapon firmly in her hand, she ran onward. The footbridge was empty. Previously some enemies where positioned at its other end, but now it was unoccupied.

The sound was getting clearer. The crash of blades, someone panting. Someone falling. A high, penetrating scream tore the air. A thud. The whistle of a blade. Delphine ran up to the slope that led to the main section of the encampment, and waiting for her was a prone corpse with a thin wound on his back. The man had clearly been attacked from behind and couldn't defend himself. Whatever injured him had probably pierced his belly and killed him.

Delphine rose her gaze. The sound came from right in front of her.

Surprise, surprise, their savior was someone who she knew quite well. The corpse of a Forsworn with a large, cauterized wound on his chest lied on the ground. Another one, who was wielding an axe in both hands, faced the one who had killed both his mates and all the others in that camp. Delphine had noticed that there wasn't a single man still standing in the whole area aside from that one.

The Assassin feinted a swing two times straight, pushing the reflexes of the Forsworn to the extremes. He then whirled Chillrend and forced the enemy to parry and back off. The man tripped on the corpse of his friend and stumbled. The icy blade touched flesh. However, aside from a weak scream, it didn't seem to matter that much. He kept swinging the two axes with the same strength as before. Delphine wondered what gave him that strength.

Azrael answered her question quickly enough. He parried, sidestepped and landed a blow of the shoulder of the Forsworn. The warrior staggered to the side, not letting go of his axes. But the axes kept his hands busy, and so he couldn't do anything at all when Azrael dashed towards him and dipped his hand in his ribcage. The scream of pain was enough to make anyone go insane. The Assassin didn't budge, pressed and gripped strongly before ripping out the Briar Heart out of the flesh of the Forsworn.

A thud. The battle was over.

'Tough bastard…' Azrael mumbled, sheathing Chillrend.

'I didn't expect you to be the one saving my sorry hide,' commented Delphine, approaching and casting a glance at the slaughtered Forsworn. 'You butchered them like animals.'

'Quite,' concurred the Dragonborn. 'That Hagraven almost caught glimpse of me. Had to kill her first.'

'Azrael!' exclaimed Esbern, getting near. 'I wouldn't have though it was you!'

'It was me indeed. How was your journey?'

'Quiet, 'till we got here,' said Delphine, taking out the map from her traveling bag and examination it. 'We stopped in Falkreath on the first day and then we camped beside the road. Nothing extraordinary, aside from a suspicious number of Imperials marching down in the direction of Falkreath.'

'So you too are feeling the change in the air?' asked the Elf.

'Yes, it's rather obvious,' replied Delphine. 'Something is moving. There's tension in the air. Whatever we can do, we need to do it quickly before everything crumbles to dust.'

'Well said, Lady Doubt. Are you playing around with that map or are you able to tell us something?'

'This should be it,' she answered, pointing at an entrance in the mountainside just up the hill. 'There, you see the entrance? The Forsworn must have camped there, but that cave hides the entrance to Sky Haven Temple. We should push onward and get rid of these deviants. Then we can get in.'

'Fine by me,' replied the Assassin, glacial.

'Off we go, then.'

The trio set out for the walk that would lead them to their final destination. Azrael walked at the front, with the bow of the Nightingales in hand and an arrow already nocked. Esbern's Atronach had disappeared, Delphine didn't notice exactly when. She walked in the rear, sword in hand and casting glances over her shoulders to make sure nobody got the jump on them from behind.

As they approached the entrance of the cave she remembered the talk she and Esbern had on the previous day of travel. Finding Sky Haven Temple wasn't just a way to uncover secrets that would have allowed the Assassin to continue his mission. Once freed of the Forsworn, that could have become their home again. After twenty-five years of flight, they would have finally found somewhere to call home again. It had been Esbern to say it, and after that they had exchanged a long stare. A stare full of hope, and doubtfulness. It was so perfect it didn't seem possible. Delphine was thinking of terrible things that could have happened to the Temple, probably just as prevention. That way she wouldn't have been sad, had the Temple been inaccessible or impossible to inhabit.

'And you, Dragonborn? What have you been up to?'

'Stuff,' answered the Dunmer with a neutral shrug. 'Let's say I found a powerful ally.'

'Someone who might help us in our research?' asked Delphine.

'No. Someone who could guard my back in case I get caught up in bureaucratic messes or problems with the war.'

'And what did you have to give in return for this kind of favor?'

'Wouldn't know how to put it. "Myself" is probably the best answer.'

'Did you strike a deal with a Daedric Prince or something like that?'

Azrael tittered balefully. It wasn't mocking in any way; however, he was truly amused by the question. Since it was a serious one, Delphine couldn't guess what entertained him so much. She gave up. They were entering the cave, so there wouldn't have been much more time to think about that anyway.

There was a campfire further down the cavern. Two Forsworn were resting beside it, and another stood guard on top of the short slope that connected the entrance to the main hollow. The Assassin flattened against the wall, gesturing the two Blades to do the same. Delphine complied, and looked as he slowly drew the bow. Horizontally, like Aela the Huntress had taught him. He waited a while before releasing, but when he did, he did it with strength.

The whistle of the arrow didn't reach the ears of the Forsworn until it was way too late. The arrow pierced his throat and drilled the neck bone. The Reachman chocked, coughed and fell on his knees before breathing his last and lying on the ground, shaking in agonizing spasms.

'Someone! There!'

'For the Reach!'

Azrael smiled behind the mask, waiting in the dark. _They would even kill and angry ant in the name of the Reach. They scream that out even when they don't know what they're fighting_ , he thought, while the two approached. A man and a woman. The woman was the first. The Assassin had never understood very well the logic behind the armors they were. _They leave the chest completely exposed. And even more dangerous, the abdomen. You can get a congestion_ _first_ _of all, and you also allow there enemy…_

As soon as the woman got close enough, Azrael tripped her and rammed the Blade of Woe in her belly.

… _To do this. Sorry aorta, but you needed to be cut for your owner to die._

'What…'

Esbern had began charging that fireball as the two enemies had began running. He leaned right and the hurled the roaring orb of flames at the enemy. Azrael couldn't quite see where it landed, because the explosion gave off so much light he was forced to turn his gaze away. The Forsworn flung backwards, against the wooden plank they used to get up the rise of the ground. Fire consumed him and the wood alike, as blazes raised half-way up the ceiling. His chocked screeches died with him after a bit. The flames went out moments later, leaving behind a trail of smoke and revealing the charred flesh.

The three proceeded, not gracing the burnt carcass with a single glance.

'Well, that was easier than expected,' commented the Assassin, cleaning his blade on the furry cuirass of the Forsworn he killed. 'I didn't think they would run at us like that.'

'They thought you were alone,' Delphine pointed out, walking past him.

'They'd be dead anyway.'

The Blade couldn't deny that. She climbed the small rise in the ground and gave her hand to Esbern, who grabbed it and climbed up himself. The Assassin spent a little more time looking over the corpses of the deceased Reachmen, searching for anything useful, but found nothing. Stealing from corpses wasn't exactly an honorable habit, but when she casually brought up the subject Azrael objected with a compelling argument. He told her that in Skyrim people often challenge one another, especially for high positions of ranking. Whoever wins, take the things the others have. He was doing the same thing, except for the terms not being written. That showed Delphine once more how logic trampled every moral, and she valued logic over moral out of principle. She didn't demur further.

She and Esbern explored the opposite end of the cave, with Azrael right behind them. After a series of corridors and passageways, the place changed completely. The cave was dark, illumined only by the bonfire and the weak glimmers from the main entrance. Further down, the ceiling above them was cracked in two, letting light in. The bright rays of the Sun. The old lore master looked around, in astonishment.

The place was clearly not a part of the encampment before. The stone walls around them bore inscriptions and scratches. The walls themselves had been smoothed to create a more vertical rampant. A set of stone stairs on the right led up to an elevated platform of some kind. The two Blades and the Dragonborn glanced around. Delphine barely held her excitement, while Azrael thought about how resistant that architecture was. Centuries had passed, millennia even, and they were almost perfectly intact.

The Assassin walked up the set of stairs, followed by Delphine. On the top, there were three, small pillars. Azrael touched one of them, and it rotated by a bit.

'This looks promising,' said Delphine, exchanging glances with him.

'Yes,' concurred Esbern, rejoining them. 'Definitely Akaviri stonework here.'

'What does this kind of switch do?'

'It lowers that bridge,' answered Azrael, pointing at the huge drawbridge firmly held up. 'If only I knew how to solve this thing. Looks like a damned riddle to me.'

'It shouldn't be too difficult,' said Esbern, approaching the pillars. 'The hardest part of the trial is bringing a Dragonborn here in the first place. It would be pointless to place overly complex trails here. Let's see… you have the symbol for King… and Warrior… And of course, the symbol for Dragonborn. That's the one that appears to have a sort of arrow shape pointing downward at the bottom.'

'Seems rather obvious to me,' commented the Assassin, turning all three pillars in a way that they saw all three Dragonborn symbols.

The drawbridge came down with a booming thud. A cloud of dust and smithereens rose, as obvious. That bridge hadn't been used for hundreds of years. It was a miracle it still worked that well. The two Blades looked as the road to their long-lost haven uncovered, piece by piece. They were closer to home that they had ever dared to imagine. Azrael stole them a glacial glance, and then moved onward.

'Know this place?' he asked.

'No,' replied Delphine, hesitantly stepping onto the bridge. 'We've never been here, and I didn't know anything about this place before Esbern told us about it.'

'This place was seldom cited in the pages kept in our archives,' explained the old man. 'It's been abandoned for thousands of years, and most of us believed it to have been destroyed or permanently rendered inaccessible. I only kept on studying the clues of its location, and it has brought me here.'

'Some of the things you said weren't exactly rational, Esbern,' commented Delphine.

Azrael, reaching the end of the bridge and slipping into the tiny passageway that followed, laughed quietly at the two colleagues settling old scores. Esbern snorted, but didn't add anything. He wasn't the type to defend himself at such accusation. He most definitely lacked sense of humor. He deemed everything he said to be true. He didn't conceive the reality that someone else might have disagreed with his ideas.

They arrived at a floor made of stone tiles, each with a symbol on it. The Assassin stopped.

'Wait a second…'

'Why are we stopping?' asked Delphine, looking over his shoulders.

'We should be careful here,' said Esbern from behind. 'Lots of traps around here.'

'Yeah, look at those symbols,' she concurred. 'Esbern's right. Look like pressure plates.'

'Stay behind,' said the Assassin. 'Come only when it's safe.'

'Careful.'

Azrael didn't have any confirmation of his suspicion, but those riddles looked to be made on purpose for the Dragonborn. The logic seemed clear to him, same as the three pillars before. The symbols were the same, and he stepped only on the continuous line with the Dragonborn sign on them. He calmly covered the whole room applying that one, rather simple logic deduction and got to the end unharmed. A chain was placed at the opposite end of the room, and as soon as he arrived he pulled it. The tiles lowered imperceptivity.

'Looks safe now,' said Delphine.

'Yes! Come on,' Esbern encouraged them. 'We must be close to the entrance.'

The group ensued the path, which led them on more bridges and more passageways. The Assassin continued to look around, and absorbed every detail of it. Esbern was a academic and Delphine someone with a solid education and background. He didn't. He never knew much about anything aside from the things he minded in Morrowind. He knew about the Daedra, the mythology behind them and the history of his land. Of the Akaviri he only knew that they had tried to invade Vvardenfell and that the Tribunal had drowned then. Nothing more. He would have never suspected they had left behind such greatness and such secrets.

They got to another chamber, with a large and empty floor and a huge door at the end. There was a cluster of spiral signs and symbols on the floor. Esbern looked overly excited by that pile of stone.

'Wonderful!' he kept exclaiming. 'Remarkably well-preserved, too. Ah… here's the blood seal. Another of the lost Akaviri arts. No doubt triggered by, well, blood. Your blood, Dragonborn,' he concluded, stealing a glance at Azrael.

'Excuse me?' he said, giving him a bleak glimpse.

'Esbern's probably right,' Delphine insisted. 'Try using your blood on the carved seal on the floor.'

Azrael kneeled beside the symbols and opened his left hand above them. He grabbed the Blade of Woe with his right, put it in his other palm, clenched the blade and slowly ripped it away. Blood drops trickled on the stone.

To the Dragonborn's surprise, something did happen. The blood seal shined white and the door, which resembled a head, was dragged above and left the entrance open.

'That's done it! Look, it's coming to life! You did it. There's the entrance!' Delphine said in one breath. She regained her composure and heaved a sigh. 'After you, Dragonborn. You should have the honor of being the first to set foot in Sky Haven Temple.'

'And what are we to expect?'

'There's no telling what we might find inside!' answered Esbern, practically hopping in excitement. 'Come on!'

Azrael peeked into the corridor that had revealed itself behind the door. He could see three things: stairs, stairs and even more stairs. At least they were preserved perfectly. Aside from the dust, that place didn't look abandoned at all. Let alone for millennia. The stone wasn't even scratched and the wall were still flat. No sign of erosion or degradation. It is very curious that some things crumble to dust with every passing year and some others endure for eras.

Finally, they found a door. A change of pace. The Assassin opened it, only to see more stairs behind it. He laughed under his breath and kept on walking. Maybe the Akaviri had a sense of building up tension that didn't quite match his, because the number of stairs were quickly becoming boring. At long last, he saw a ray of light coming from the corner. It meant they were near an exit, or at least a window.

It was a room. The main room, by the look of it. It was very bare and simple, made of dark stone and completely empty. High columns and pillars held up the ceiling, which was quite a bit above their heads. The light had in fact come from an opening in the wall, which was probably an exit to somewhere. However, that room kept what they were looking for. Azrael could guess already before Esbern began his explanation.

'Fascinating!' he murmured, astonished in a way only and an old man can be. 'Original Akaviri bas-reliefs… almost entirely intact! Amazing. You can see how the Akaviri craftsmen were beginning to embrace the more flowing Nordic style…'

'We're here for Alduin's Wall, right, Esbern?' Delphine reminded him.

'Yes, of course,' he acknowledged, but without looking away from the walls and the carvings on them. 'We'll have more time to look around later, I suppose. Let's see what's up ahead.'

'This,' said the Assassin, standing in front of a large plate of carved rock. The carvings on it were very accurate and precise, almost like a drawing. Azrael was no specialist, but the huge Dragon with a spiked back carved several times on the wall was woefully known to him.

'Shor's bones!' the old man mumbled. 'Here it is! Alduin's Wall… So well preserved. I've never seen a finer example of early second era Akaviri sculptural relief…'

'Esbern…' Delphine intervened again. 'We need information, not a lecture on art history.'

'Yes, yes! Let's see what we have. Look, here is Alduin!' exclaimed the old man, pointing at the huge carving. Azrael turned towards him, listening. 'This panel goes back to the beginning of time, when Alduin and the Dragon Cult ruled over Skyrim. Here, the humans rebel against their Dragon overlords. The legendary Dragon War. Alduin's defeat is the centerpiece of the Wall. You see, here he is falling from the sky. The Nord Tongues, masters of the Voice, are arrayed against him.'

'So, does it show how they defeated him? Isn't that why we're here?' Delphine asked.

'Patience, my dear,' Esbern explained. 'The Akaviri were not a straightforward people. Everything is couched in allegory and mythic symbolism. Yes, yes… This here, coming from the mouths of the Nord heroes, this is the Akaviri symbol for Shout. But… there's no way to know what Shout is meant.'

'They yelled him out of the sky?' asked the Assassin, raising an eyebrow.

'You're sure, Esbern?'

'What?' asked the old man, lost in thought. 'Oh, yes. Presumably something rather specific to Dragons, or even Alduin himself. Remember, this is where they recorded all they knew of Alduin and his return.'

'So, we're looking for a Shout then. Damn it,' Delphine mumbled. 'Azrael, any ideas? A Shout that can knock a Dragon out of the sky?'

The Assassin looked at the whole panel once again, observing the scenes one by one. For a good while he didn't seem to have noted her questioning or even heard her. When he answered, his voice was cold as ice.

'Never heard of it.'

'I was afraid you were going to say that,' she said, shaking her head. 'I guess there's nothing for it. We'll have to ask the Greybeards for help. I hoped to avoid involving them in this, but we have no other choice.'

'Fine,' he commented, with an emotionless tone that didn't make his opinion transpire in any way. 'I'm off to speak with Arngeir.'

'Right…' she replied, with an exasperated tone. 'Good thing they've already let you into their little cult. Not likely they'd help Esbern or me if we came calling. We'll look around Sky Haven Temple and see what else the old Blades might have left for us. It's a better hideout than I could have hoped for. Talos guard you.'

'See you soon.'

The Dragonborn walked off. As soon as he did, Delphine went by Esbern's side.

'Our new home,' she whispered.

'Yes,' said the old man, staring at the wall. 'I can't believe it.'


	6. Secondborn

_The cold… Azura's sake, we're on the brink of winter and I've got to climb a god-forsaken mountain. Great…_ thought the Assassin, covering his face with his arm. The snowstorm blew strong, and it had been since halfway up the seven thousand steps. _I envy you, you know girl?_ he said in his mind to Shadowmere, who calmly cantered onward without any signs of distress. _If only I had your resistance to this weather. Oblivion, I feel my bones chilling. What's that over there… Ninth Emblem, I'm almost there._

The journey hadn't been too disturbing. A Forsworn hunting gang had tried to apprehend him, but they'd ended up with two dead and no prisoner. In Whiterun Hold he had spied some Imperial troops maneuvering near the border. Passing by the market on the outside of the city, some guards had told him that the Commander had told them to double the man on watch during the night. They weren't the only ones worried with the war. It still seemed absurd to Azrael that they worried more about the war than about the Dragons, but it was the frequency of the events that influenced them.

Every day, or near about that, they heard of a clash between two patrols, a fight among scouts of opposing factions, a skirmish in the highlands… Things like that. However, the Assassin had seen a place where a Dragon had attacked. The area was hard to miss. It was a clearing in the trees. A burnt, scorched clearing with a carbonized cart and several skeletons surrounded by ash. Fifteen, in total. Judging by the swords nearby, some of them were soldiers. They didn't stand a chance. The Dragonborn had spotted the culprit of that gracefully flying over a peak, but decided not to hunt it down. It might have taken too long. He accepted a contract to kill a Dragon only once, and tracking it down alone had taken him four days. Never again.

Instead, he had raced right off to High Hrothgar. Even in Ivarstead the pressure of the Civil War was making the inhabitants tense. By that moment, it merely amused the Assassin. Moreover, he recalled that he had never seen any actual fighting. Nobody had. That was a war of rumors. Two teams killed there, they said, a clash between scouts, they said. Sometimes some dead bodies appeared. However, he still hadn't seen any actual fighting. Funny maybe, but the war was like that. For the moment, at least.

The climb hadn't been the most pleasing thing in the world, also. The cold ate away at his strengths, and he sorrowfully remembered that the snows of the Throat of the World seem strangely resistant to magic fire. Usual snow melts, but that one didn't.

Shadowmere cantered until before the tenth Emblem, and then stopped with a neigh. Azrael jumped down and looked up at the fortress. Nothing unusual. As if something unusual could happen to that place. He walked onward, heading towards the stairs and, distracting with the thought of the heat inside. He casted a glance back, and smiled faintly behind the mask. That place felt out of reality, and the two-hour ride required to arrive further augmented the sensation.

The Dragonborn opened the doors. It was time for some important things.

High Hrothgar was tranquil as ever. The fires burned bright in their braziers, fueled with coals every few hours. The air was warm and dry, and the temperature change from the outside was enough to make one feel like as uncomfortable as it can get. Going in was pleasant, but going out? It was a shock to say the least.

Nevertheless, that place was welcoming. Lonely, sure, but welcoming. It was bare, simple, without any ornaments. Azrael reached the central hall, but there was no one there to wait for him. The Greybeards are like that. They know you are there, they always do, but never make one move. That time it didn't go any different. Azrael took off his cloak and left it to dry out near a brazier. He went left, where the four elders had arranged a line of tables that resembled a dining room.

All four of them were there, just as he expected.

'Greetings,' the Assassin said, walking in.

'Dovahkiin…' they whispered, retuning the courtesy. The floor seemed to shake.

'Dragonborn,' Arngeir said, after the others. 'Welcome. What is it you seek?'

 _Always like this…_ thought the Assassin. _Formal, cool and to the point. Damn, they don't seem human any more._

'The Shout used to defeat Alduin. I need to learn it.'

'Where have you learn of that?' asked back the man, suddenly reinvigorating. 'Who have you been talking to?'

His tone sounded accusatory. Azrael smirked. He had just wailed about them being cool and ceremonial, and there they dropped their mask. _Hate is all-powerful…_ he thought, _it tricks even the most controlled into giving in to their inner rage. Even an old and lonely man like Arngeir._ And, in fact, the Greybeard had lost his temper a bit. The mention had made him shake. Azrael replied calmly. No point in stirring their ire.

'Alduin's Wall. The Akaviri recorded it.'

'The Blades!' exclaimed the old man, with a sigh of exasperation. 'Of course, they specialize in meddling in matters they barely understand. Their reckless arrogance knows no bounds. They have always sought to turn the Dragonborn from the path of wisdom. Have you learned nothing from us?' he asked, shifting the focus of his irritation to the Assassin directly. 'Would you simply be a tool in the hands of the Blades, to be used for their own purposes?'

'Unlike you,' whispered the Dragonborn, deepening his tone, ' the Blades have helped me. Not the other way around. I'm not their puppet.'

'No, no, of course not!' replied Arngeir, quickly falling back from his previous statement. From any other, Azrael would have found it pathetic to say the least, but he saw a strange dignity in the man admitting his own mistake. 'Forgive me, Dragonborn. I have been intemperate with you, but heed my warning: The Blades may say they serve the Dragonborn, but they do not. They never have.'

'They might have, in the past. Now they're in ruin,' said the Assassin. 'You've lived long, Arngeir. You'll agree that a search for purpose can cleanse what was once corrupt.'

'Yes, Dragonborn. You are right. Again, forgive me.'

'Anyhow, can you teach me this Shout?'

'No,' said the old man, shaking his head slightly. 'I cannot teach it to you because I do not know it. It is called Dragonrend, but its words of power are unknown to us. And we do not regret this loss. Dragonrend holds no place in the Way of the Voice.'

'I though you knew everything about the Voice.'

'But not Dragonrend,' remarked the old man, coolly and definitively. 'The knowledge of that Shout was lost in the time before history began. Perhaps only its creators ever knew it. But I'm not the one to speak of it to you.'

'And why? We beat the Path of Wisdom, not the Path of Good.'

'It was created by those who lived under the unimaginable cruelty of Alduin's Dragon Cult. Their whole lives were consumed with hatred for Dragons, and they poured all that anger and hatred into this Shout. When you learn a Shout, you take it into your very being. In a sense, you become the Shout. Do you understand? To learn and use Dragonrend, you'll be taking this evil into yourself.'

'For the weak,' observed Azrael, arching an eyebrow. 'Doesn't it work as a protective serum of some kind? You inject it, and you build defenses against the evil it contains?'

'This is not a question for me to answer, Dovahkiin. The Shouts that make the Way of the Voice are the very image of Wisdom. As such, we yield to their insight without posing resistance. Perhaps with Dragonrend… It will be different.'

'How can it? I take it there's nobody left to teach it to me.'

'Only Paarthurnax, the master of our order, can answer that question. If he so chooses.'

Oh, yes… That mysterious man who lives at the top of a mountain without any negative repercussion. If he is a man, that is.

'You said he lives on the peak of the mountain,' Azrael reminded him. 'How can I reach him?'

'Only those whose Voice is strong can find the path. Come,' he said, slowly standing up. 'We will teach you a Shout to open the way to Paarthurnax.'

The Greybeards walked towards the exit. The others had sat next to them, listening, throughout the who conversation. Speaking of which, Azrael was surprised by how smoothly it went. Delphine might have hated them, but they were a lot more tolerant than she was. In a way, they were humble people. The Blades were the opposite, or at least the two Azrael had encountered. Scornful, stubborn and presuming. Oh yes, they presumed a lot. Too much, at times. The Greybeards, on the other hand, had learned not to become such. Learning to do something is not as effective as fighting it, but it worked nonetheless.

The Masters of the Voice opened the doors that led to the courtyard. That place was strange, and it strengthened the suspect of the mountain being magical in some way. Just like the snow didn't melt when exposed to great heat, the winds and storm that scourged the ascent didn't touch that courtyard. Beyond the stone portal at the end of it, however, the blizzard raged so violent that Azrael hadn't even dared step past.

The Greybeards stopped near the circular brazier near the stone gate. Azrael gazed up at the portal for a moment, and then turned to Arngeir.

'The path to Paarthurnax lies through this gate,' he said. 'I will show you how to open the way.'

The old man closed his eyes and inhaled, and then a thundering whisper came out of his mouth.

'Lok… Vah Koor.'

Azrael grinned bleakly behind the mask. Learning new Words of Power was one of the things he liked the most. It was something that had almost no equivalent in normal life. You might have a sudden realization, or even understand something very difficult, but that was different. It was a deeper insight, as if a locked expanse of his mind got cracked and freed. Maybe that was it. He felt that knowledge as already part of him, but not his completely. Not yet. Every time he learned a new Word, something sprang. There was almost a sense of progression in all that. Where it would have led, that he did not know nor desired to know.

He focused on the Words. Lok, Vah, Koor. Images flashed through his mind. First, a blue and infinite sky that stretched in all directions. Second, the airborne view of a plain. It was colorful, and the grass was full of flowers. It was spring. The green sea shimmered, almost flowing under him, giving way to a more yellow and hot image. Trees thick with leaves, a radiant Sun that illumined the landscape of colors the like of which he never saw with his mortal eyes.

 _So… Lok means Sky, or something very close to it. Vah and Koor are seasons, Spring, and Summer. How quaint. Now, I guess the old guy is going to tell me the history of a lifetime and pass his knowledge to me. It's so embarrassing at times. They can't always keep the meaning of the World separated from their personal experience._

'I will grant you my understanding of Clear Skies,' said Arngeir. 'This is your final gift from us, Dragonborn. Use it well.'

The howl of the wind disappeared, and a gust deafened the Assassin for a moment. It always happened when learning a new Shout. Thoughts of others now rushed in his mind, whereas imaged had passed when seeing the three Words. As always, he had to adapt what Arngeir was telling him. The idea that the Nord had of those Words, especially Spring and Summer, was a lot different than his. Morrowind didn't have seasons that resembled the ones of Skyrim.

 _Arngeir was a traveler before coming to High Hrothgar…_ Azrael deducted from his stream of thoughts. _The way he thinks about Summer isn't derived from Skyrim. Maybe somewhere down South. Can't… completely reconstruct the look of the place, but it must have been warmer._

'Clear skies will blow away the mist, but only for a time,' Arngeir explained. 'The path to Paarthurnax is perilous, not to be embarked upon lightly. Keep moving, stay focused on your goal and you will reach the summit.'

'Thanks, Master.'

'Wind guide you.'

Azrael went up the stairs, sensing and studying the strange warmth that irradiated in him. The Shout had become part of him, and it influenced him too. He felt the gaze of the Greybeards on his back. They were surely going to stay there until he had gone past the stone gate.

The Assassin looked in the icy mist beyond the portal: it was a strong blizzard. Strong to the degree that he concluded it wasn't natural. The winds blew strong and in directions that wouldn't have been normal. As he came closer, he felt a gust coming from the side of the mountain. Impossible, and it was even more impossible that the wind had hit the stone wall and turned the other way. Air didn't behave like that. However, that was of little importance to him.

Skies. Blue, pure skies in which the Sun burned more bright than it ever would in reality. The expanse was on azure and so clean that the Assassin wondered if he himself had ever seen that color. Probably not. Or maybe yes, in the brief moment when the Voice left his lungs. Those were the instances where the world changed shape and colors. Maybe in one of those moments he really had laid eyes on that tint.

Spring. Different things came to mind. The blooming ash-crops of Morrowind, the tawny plants that grew in the Ashlands when winter came to an end. Then, more recent events. He had arrived in Skyrim during spring, and the colorful flowers and green grasses reappeared before him as if they were there, instead of the blizzard.

Summer. Again, first images of Morrowind and then of Skyrim. Of the Summer that had just passed. The woods of pines and firs that covered Skyrim landscapes were the first thing, and with them he recalled the bright light and pleasant heat. Heat. Heat was the things that often surfaced, when saying that Word.

Sky, in all its clarity. Spring, the death of winter. Summer, the heat that melts the ice.

'Lok… Vah Koor!'

* * *

The way was clear. Azrael stepped in the small gap between the two boulders. He breathed deeply and heavily, and couldn't help but laugh at himself. _Azrael the Assassin, Last Dragonborn and all that… Gets winded walking up the mountain. Lucky me there's no minstrel around to sing of this. It would be quite embarrassing,_ he thought, having a fit of dry cough. The cold had crept to his throat and his lungs. The blue, cloudless sky that he had created with the new Shout was beautiful, but it didn't heat up the air one bit.

The Assassin looked at the Sun. He arched an eyebrow, sighed, and shook his head. It had taken him at least two hours to make the climb. The blizzard and the mist were bad and everything, but they shied away before his Voice. However, there was no Shout he knew to reduce the slant of a mountain. Facing the occasional Ice Wraiths had been difficult; his legs shrieked in protest every time he dodged, and his thighs lamented, wallowing in pain at every sudden movement. Maybe hours and hours on horseback weren't the most beneficial things, but still, they complained way too much for his tastes.

The slope came to an end. The Dragonborn looked at the sky and thanked every single Daedra he knew. Immediately after, he looked at the other side of the kind of plateau where he had ended up. Nothing too interesting, mainly more snow, aside from one thing: a draconic wall, the one that usually are found deep in crypts of high on peaks. _Well, I guess this is a high peak. Nothing too strange there. However, I'd fully expect my host to be here,_ he thought, casting glances around. If Paarthurnax was really a Dragon, as he suspected, it would not have been too hard to spot. The damn beasts were quite large.

For a while he saw nothing, but then a roar came from the most obvious place a Dragon would be in: the sky, right above him.

The winged beast had come from the very top of the mountain, which loomed a hundred meters more above him. It beat its wings, descending vertically, landing heavily on the snow. It had scales akin to the ones of any other dragon Azrael had encountered, but bone white. Not green, nor grey, nor black. Just bone white. The back was spiked, just like the huge black Dragon, and the head had sharp barbs also. Overall, a damn intimidating beast. However, it didn't breathe fire down on the Dragonborn and didn't try to rip him to shreds. Instead, it spoke.

'Drem Yol Lok,' it said, in a voice that was hoarse but not as deep and frightening as the Black Dragon. 'Greetings, wunduniik. I am Paarthurnax.'

 _Pleasure to meet you_ , thought the Assassin, raising both eyebrows and replying to the greeting with a slight, mocking bow. Despite him expecting a Dragon, the whole thing was still quite unbelievable. _Well, this is getting ridiculous… A random person that has the soul and blood of a Dragon, that is forced to kill Dragons, now calmly talking with a Dragon, of all things. I think I could die tomorrow and I'd be fine with the things I've seen._

'Who are you?' continued the Dragon. 'What brings you to my strunmah… my mountain?'

'Do we really need to get through with presentations? I think you already know who I am.'

'Yes,' replied the Dragon. 'Vahzah. You speak true, Dovahkiin. Forgive me. It has been long since I held tinvaak with a stranger. I gave in to the temptation to prolong our speech.'

The Dragonborn couldn't help but shake his head. The way he moves his head and mouth to talk is just so unsettling… I guess they're not made to talk in our language. I guess the only thing of a Dragon I don't have is the body of one. He said to himself. He wanted to laugh, but he doubted the Dragon would have understood him. He didn't expect nor imagine it to understand jokes and have any sense of humor. He felt it in the part of him that belonged to the Dov.

'And why live on the top of this crazy-high mountain if you love conversing so much?' he asked.

'Evenaar Bahlok,' answered the Dragon. He talked slowly and separating each three words from the next ones. Understandable. Most of the phrases in their language were made up of three Words. Azrael himself knew it. 'There are many hungers it is better to deny than to feed. Dreh ni nahkip. Discipline against the lesser aids in qahnaar… denial of the greater.'

'Might have expected a philosopher,' sighed the Assassin. 'However, it was quite the surprise for me to find a Dragon.'

'I am as my father Akatosh made me. As are you… Dovahkiin. But tell me: why do you come here, volaan? Why do you intrude on my meditation?'

'Dragonrend,' Azrael stated simply.

'Drem,' Paarthurnax said, almost interrupting him. 'Patience. There are formalities which must be observed, at the first meeting of two of the Dov.'

The Assassin didn't really know how he felt, or even how he should feel. He had come searching a weapon against the World Eater, and all he found was an old and talkative Dragon. However, he sensed something within himself. All that time he had first fought and then surrendered to the idea that no one in existence could share his thoughts with him. But now, as if only to prove him wrong, one of his own kind was next to him. The bone white wings of Paarthurnax opened as he walked ahead, leaving deep holes in the snow.

'By long tradition, the elder speaks first,' it said. 'Here my Thu'um. Feel it in your bones. Match it, if you are Dovahkiin.'

The Assassin felt the power. The Dragon arched its neck and then breathed a fiery inferno against the Nordic wall Azrael had seen coming up. He looked at the stream of flames as it crashed against the stone. A normal mortal would have heard a roar, but Azrael heard something more. The Words echoed in his soul.

Yol… Toor… Shul.

'The Word call for you,' said Paarthurnax, this time in a tone that sounded somewhat fatherly. 'Go to it.'

Azrael slowly walked towards the wall. The runes glowed, emerging from the stone in shimmering shapes. Just as usual, reading it proved enough to make him feel the meaning inside him. But the meaning only. The understanding wasn't his; it might have needed time.

'A gift, Dovahkiin,' the Dragon said. 'Yol. Understand Fire as the Dov do.'

As previously had happened with Arngeir, Paarthurnax bestowed upon him his knowledge. And to the Assassin's surprise, it was unworldly clear. Whereas the comprehension the Greybeards gave him was very human and full of analogic transitions, what the Dragon presented to him with was pure and perfect. Azrael almost refused to believe it. Months spending complaining that nobody on this world could understand how I felt, and it turns out someone indeed can. Madness. I share a deeper bond with those I'm trying to kill than with the ones I'm saving. He breathed deeply, as Fire crept up in his body and infused a strange warmth in him. Dunmer are born of flames, true, but only now he understood what exactly the Flames meant. He looked in the eyes of Paarthurnax. That Dragon was his true brother.

'Now, show me what you can do. Greet me not as mortal, but as Dovah!'

 _No need to remark that,_ thought Azrael. _Now I get it. I'm more Dragon than mortal. That is why I'm different._

Azrael inhaled, and Fire raged. The Dark Elf, borne of flames, created from ashes, grown in cinder, echoed with the entire might of the Fire. The fire that he had failed to understand for all that time. The Dragon, meanwhile, absorbed every bit of energy of his body and soul. His breath heated, polymerized, changed essence and erupted out of his mouth as true flame. The world changed colors, tint, meaning… Everything. All looked clear for a moment, as the conflagration surged out of his lungs.

'Yes!' growled Paarthurnax, triumphant. 'Sossedov los mul. The Dragonblood runs strong in you. It is long since I had the pleasure of speech with one of my own kind.'

'Same for me…' tittered the Dragonborn.

'So. You have made your way here, to me. No easy task for a joor… mortal. Even for one of Dovah Sos. Dragonblood. What would you ask of me?'

'Already told you. Dragonrend. Can you teach it to me?'

'Ah… I have expected you. Prodah. You would not come all this way for tinvaak with an old Dovah. No. You seek your weapon against Alduin.'

'Had I known you were up here, wishing for someone to speak to, I might have come earlier. But never mind… Can you teach me Dragonrend or not?'

'Krosis. Sorrowfully, no. It cannot be known to me. Your kind… joorre, mortals, created it as a weapon against the Dov… the Dragons. Our hadrimme, our minds cannot even… comprehend its concepts.'

'You seem confident nonetheless. Is there another way I can learn it?'

Azrael had the absurd impression that the Dragon had chuckled. 'Drem. Patience. You learn quickly, Dovahkiin. But all in good time. First, I have a question for you. Why do you want to learn this Thu'um?'

Azrael laughed quietly and bit his lip. He had never thought about it, truly. It was a duty of his, true, and his fate. But there was something more. However, he answered impulsively. He was sure the truth would have emerged naturally from the conversation as thought water flows naturally out of a spring.

'I need to stop Alduin. Simple as that.'

'Yes. Alduin… Zeymah. The elder brother. Gifted, grasping and troublesome, as is so often the case with firstborn. But why? Why must you stop Alduin?'

'The prophecy says that only the Dragonborn can stop him.'

'True… But qostiid, prophecy, tells what may be, not what should be. Qostiid sahlo aak. Just because you can do a thing, does not always mean you should. Do you have no better reason for acting than destiny? Are you nothing more than a plaything of Dez, of Fate?'

 _Damn, the Nerevarine's tales speak true,_ Azrael thought, smiling. However, that question wasn't easy to answer. He had to admit one thing to the Dragon, something he was not entirely comfortable saying and even feeling.

'A wise mortal once told me I'm a part of fate. I am the Destroyer, the Ender. Still, or rather because of that, I don't really believe in Fate. Also, Alduin is the Ender, and if I am an Ender myself… Well, two destroyers are coexisting, which is simply not possible. One way or another, we'll have to clash. Nevertheless, something greater pushes me to Alduin. I feel that by slaying him, I will acquire greater understanding. A better view of Fate itself. Maybe, from it, new power will arise in me.'

'Paar,' said Paarthurnax, in a tone that would have sounded curious had the winged monster been human. 'Ambition. Morah, Dovahkiin. Be wary. That is the same thing that drives your enemy. Do not succumb to it.'

'I won't. Perhaps by having a taste of it, I'll be able to resist it.'

'Paaz. A fair answer. But, achieving your Laat, your goal, will deny the next world from coming. Perhaps this world is simply the Egg of the next kalpa? Lein vokiin? Would you stop the next world from being born?'

'As if I even cared… The next world will simply have to take care of itself.'

'Ro Fus…' commented the Dragon. 'Maybe you only balance the forces that work to quicken the end of this world. Even we who ride the currents of Time cannot see past Time's end… Wuldsetiid los tahrodiis. Those who try to hasten the end, may delay it. Those who work to delay the end, may bring it closer. But you have indulged my weakness for speech long enough. Krosis. Now I will answer your question. Do you know why I live here, at the peak of the Monahven: what you name Throat of the World?'

'I've been asking myself that for the whole time. You like mountains or something?'

'Yes. But few now remember that this was the very spot where Alduin was defeated by the ancient Tongues. Vahrukt unslaad… perhaps none but me now remember how he was defeated.'

'With Dragonrend, I presume.'

'Yes and no. Viik nuz ni kron. Alduin was not truly defeated, either. If he was, you would not be here today, seeking to… defeat him. The Nords of those days used the Dragonrend Shout to cripple Alduin. But this was not enough. Ok mulaag unslaad. It was the Kel, the Elder Scroll. They used it to… cast him adrift on the currents of Time.'

'A piece of paper that casted something of that size and power forward in time?'

'Not intentionally,' Paarthurnax made clear. He never misunderstood his jests, but didn't react to them either. 'Some hoped he would be gone forever, forever lost. Meyye. I knew better. Tiid bo amativ. Time flows ever onward. One day he would surface. Which is why I have lived here. For thousands of mortal years, I have waited. I knew where he would emerge but not when.'

'And this helps me because…?'

'Tiid krent. Time was… shattered here because of what the ancient Nords did to Alduin. If you brought that Kel, that Elder Scroll back here… to the Tiid-Ahraan, the Time-Wound… With the Elder Scroll that was used to break Time, you may be able to… cast yourself back. To the other end of the break. You could learn Dragonrend from those who created it.'


	7. Off the Beaten Path

_Yeah, so we said, back in the day… 'Mather of the Rose, Queen of the Night Sky, hear your children.' It's been less than a year, and I feel like an eternity is passed,_ thought the Dragonborn, shaking his head and gazing up at the peak of the mountain.

The Goddess of Twilight looked in the general direction of Morrowind, clad in a robe that was attached to her wrists and served as a clever method of keeping the whole statue stable. Azrael always thanked the Daedric Prince for having been born Dunmer, so that he himself might gain from their natural tendency to merge practicality with splendor.

He went up the set of stairs, looking at the two hands of the statue. One was holding a sun and the other one the crescent of one of the two moons. The sky was blue, and the white marble looked a lot brighter than it was. The nice weather had rendered the climb a lot easier as well. The wind still blew strong, but no blizzard was raging around him.

Azrael spied two individuals sitting near an altar at the feet of the statue. They were looking at him. One was a female, clad in a blue tunic, and the other was an acquaintance of his. It was a Dark Elf as well, black-hair and red-eyed, wearing a long black tunic. It had been some time ago. It most definitely had.

'Faldrus!' the Assassin greeted him. 'I see you've made your way here.'

'Azrael!' the Dunmer realized, standing up and going towards him. His not recognizing the Dragonborn at first glance was understandable. He donned a quite different suit of armor back when they first met. Nevertheless, the pilgrim was glad to see him alive and well. 'It's good to see you, friend. It's been a long time.'

'It really has. Who's this blood-sister?' he asked, giving a courteous nod to the one in the blue robe, who was actually a Dunmer herself.

'Aranea is her name. Tell me,' he said, turning to her and sitting back by her side, 'is Azrael the one?'

'Yes,' she answered, with the voice and accent typical of the Dunmer. 'Azura has seen your coming, traveler,' she told the Assassin. 'It was not curiosity, but fate, that has led you here.'

'Yeah, everybody talks a lot about fate as of late. What do you mean "seen me coming", anyway? Are you a seer of some sort?'

'Azura has given me the gift of foresight,' she explained, as Azrael sat down in front of the two other Elves. 'I had a vision of you walking up the steps to this altar long before you were born. In my dream a snowstorm raged, though it quickly passed as if to warn me of your arrival. Just as it happened today.' Azrael looked at her and swallowed the quiet laugh creeping up his throat. Clear Skies wasn't useful only to get to old Dragons, it seemed. Meanwhile, Aranea finished explaining. 'You have been chosen to be her champion. I know it is unexpected, but do not worry. It will all unfold as she has predicted.'

'And what does the Goddess of Twilight require of me?'

'You must go to a fortress, endangered by water, yet untouched by it. Inside, you will find an elven mage who can turn the brightest star as black as night. It is cryptic, I know, but Azura's signs are never wrong. I believe the fortress may refer to Winterhold. Ask if they know this elven enchanter.'

'I guess the prophecy warned you that this won't be done in the immediate future.'

'Yes, Azura has shown me. You have an important task ahead of you, brother. The Lady of Dusk and Dawn herself urges you to complete it.'

'When Daedra have to concern themselves in something that is not in their immediate interest… Well, it means the world is screwed up big time,'

The three Dunmer laughed quietly. Azrael lowered his hood and took off his face mask, putting it beside him on the bench. He crossed his fingers and rested his chin on his intertwined hands. Faldrus looked at him and arched an eyebrow. His armor was a completely new suit, and a way better one than the simple leather outfit he had seen him weak the last time they saw one another. The Assassin recalled that he had just come back from the Throat of the World when he met him.

'So, Faldrus,' said the Assassin, 'you arrived here and then? What kept you here?'

'Aranea is teaching me,' he answered. 'The life I led before was not the one I wanted. Upon arriving here, I asked the Lady for insight. She granted me an answer, and offered me to spend the rest of my life here. As her priest.'

'Glad you found your way.'

'And what has fate brought you? Which path have you followed?'

'The path of the Assassin. Death, wisdom, ambition, damnation and chaos.'

'The Lady of Dusk and Dawn doesn't judge,' intervened Aranea. 'She only cares about her children. Have you found your own way, Azrael, Assassin? Is the path you're treading the one you wanted to stride?'

'Yes.'

'Yours is a dangerous trail. I wish you the best,' said Faldrus.

'Thanks. Might need it someday,' replied the Assassin. It was impossible to tell if he was serious or somewhat ironic. Either way, he was grateful. 'Now… Onto more trivial matters.' The Assassin opened one of his larger bandoliers and took out a piece of salted meat. He flung it in their direction.

'We have plenty to eat,' observed Faldrus, insecure.

'Shut up and eat,' tittered the Dragonborn, shaking his head so that his long hair would fall on his back. 'Let me think… I guess it's the former leader of the Thieves Guild that's giving you this meat,' he said, grabbing a piece of meat for himself and chewing half of it in one bite.

'The leader of the Thieves Guild?' asked Faldrus.

'Yes. Would you believe that? I found myself trapped in Guild's business and managed to get out only by killing their boss.'

'How low has this world fallen…'

'The world has always been like this, we just weren't aware of that at the time,' commented the Assassin, swallowing the last piece of meat.

Faldrus and Aranea were calmly eating theirs. They probably had something to eat at midday, but Azrael had barely eaten his breakfast; just some berries that he had picked up along the way. During those long months in Skyrim he had lost some weight. He had put up some serious muscles, but he had slimmed down a lot as well. Karliah, of all people, had been the one that advised him to vary his diet.

'How goes the world beneath this place?' asked Aranea. Her tone was always very controlled.

'A bloody and ravaged Oblivion-hole. Wait.' Azrael inspected his cuirass, then pointed at a blood stain on the breastplate. 'This is a Stormcloak patrol that stopped me because… reasons. And… this,' he continued, showing the them the left edge of the hood. It was drenched in dried gore. 'This is a bandit gang going rabid. They even took the time to explain me that one should not travel alone.'

'You answer?' grinned Aranea.

'A shrug, an emotionless "That's why I have my dagger with me" and lots and lots of stabs in the throat. And one to the heart. Almost forgot that. It was quite entertaining, really. That idiot kept his guard so high I had the time kick him in the belly and ram the dagger in his ribcage.'

'Humans…' said Faldrus with a shrug.

'And the rest?' kept asking Aranea. 'The civil war? The Dragons?'

'Neither of those business is going great,' said the Assassin, arching an eyebrow in a mocking way. 'The war is on a stall, but that doesn't mean it's less brutal. There have been some months of standoff after the capture of Ulfric, but now the cogs are staring to move again. Neither of the armies is strong enough to launch an all in assail on a city or an enemy contingent. Instead, they're poking at one another. And who suffers from the poking? The common folk.'

'The mighty fight one another and the weak die while complying,' said Aranea. 'However, it doesn't make any of this less sad.'

'What happens, exactly?' asked Faldrus.

'Skirmishes, small battles, assaults on defenseless convoys… You name it. While passing through Whiterun I met a merchant that was drinking his sadness away at the tavern. I asked what was wrong with him, and the innkeeper told me that a gang of Stormcloaks had attacked and looted his caravan. The motive? They were certain he was bringing supplies to imperial troops. At the Nightgate Inn I was told that an imperial patrol had entered the place, slaughtered the two rebels that were drinking there in their time off and abducted two people sleeping there. Suspected of cooperation with the rebels. Without guards to settle matters, the bandits at the Valtheim Towers have reorganized and are asking for a toll every time someone passes by. Since the armies don't go through that place, because the gorge is an excellent place to set up an ambush, nobody is taking care of the criminals. I would have taken care of it myself, had I had the time. The amount of coin they were willing to pay for it was more than worth. And so on… That's only Whiterun, and only the stories the proprietor of the inn told me. There are a thousand more.'

And truly he spoke. They were only a few. He didn't count the mother crying in the middle of the street, grieving for the death of her son. He didn't count the small crowd gathered around the Temple of Arkay for the cremation of two young recruits died in a skirmish on the border. He didn't count the entire family of merchants, begging, and covered in rags, that had told him how the Stormcloaks had attacked, looted, and set their only wagon alight; the Jarl had to settle some other things before he could heed to their request for help. The Assassin had left their youngest daughter, a seven-year-old, a sweet of baked cream.

And still, with all that suffering around him, he didn't feel anything. He had maybe cared for the little girl, perhaps about the whole family, but for a moment. He didn't want them to go hungry. But did he care about the war and the people going through that torture? No, not really. He felt two opposites: compassion and distaste. Once, and we're talking about a mere year before, he would have felt them both and would have somehow managed to mix them. But now, all he felt was indifference. That war wasn't terrible; it wasn't horrific; it was just stupid. Both factions had more pressing matters to deal with, but they preferred to fight one another. And for what? Nothing, for the time being.

And there were indeed more pressing matters.

'What about the Dragons?' asked Aranea.

'Those winged lizards are a problem of their own. Few of them have awakened yet, but…'

'Awakened?' Faldrus cut him off. 'What do you mean?'

 _Perhaps it's better if I skip the resurrection part of this mess,_ the Assassin said to himself. He shrugged, seemingly casually. 'Nothing. I meant returning. Nobody really knows where they're coming from, to be sincere. Things is, there have been sixteen confirmation of Dragon sightings. I managed to put their traces together, and it would seem there are currently only five Dragon flying in these very skies. They were eight, of that I'm sure, and three have reportedly been struck down,' he said. _Guess by who…_ he concluded in his head.

'We saw one flying over the other day,' Faldrus told him.

'What did it look like?' the Assassin inspected.

'White scales, a barbed head and a row of high spines on the back. It is very large.'

'Got it. That one lives… Right there,' said the Assassin, pointing at the side of the nearby mountain. There was a snowy bent in the solid shape of the crags. 'Mount Anthor is the name of the place. The Dragon living there is said to breathe blue flames, but I'm betting it really exhales frost. It's been causing trouble all the way to the Weynon Stones, which is a three of four day away from the Mount on foot.'

'You know quite a lot about them,' observed Aranea.

'I kill for a living and know things as a leisure. My life is like that.'

'And who are you off to kill, then?' asked Faldrus.

'Nobody, oddly enough. That affair with the Thieves Guild has gained me enough for a little bit of vacation. I've been looking into this Dragon problem as a pastime, and now I'm headed for the College of Winterhold to find some answers I've been looking for.'

'The College? You'll probably find a young Dunmer inside,' Faldrus told the Assassin. 'Goes by the name of Brelyna Maryon. She arrived here not two days' past and said she was going to apply for studies in Conjuration and Alteration.'

'Any other Dunmer inside?'

'Drevis Neloren, and the Arch mage Savos himself,' answered Aranea. 'They no longer hold to the Daedra, however.'

'Truly?'

'Arch mage Savos hasn't for quite a while now. Drevis is a different tale. I suspect he's not quite right in the head.'

'How come?'

'He's a master of Illusion magic. I've heard rumors of him practicing on himself. Do you know something about Illusion, Azrael?'

'Not a lot. I know very little about magic in general. I've got great plans for when I can settle down, but nothing for now.'

'Then you might not know that a prolonged exposure to Illusion magic is very dangerous for the mind. The charms alter the brain, and any effect that lasts long enough causes irreversible damage. The effect is not common knowledge only because most people affected by multiple Illusion spells in a short amount of time die shortly after. Drevis has probably experimented on himself, and ended up in a semi-confused state.'

'Keeping that in mind.'

'And this plans for when you're resolved your matters?' asked Faldrus.

'Many and diverse,' answered Azrael, vaguely, but then continued. 'For once, I want to become a master of magic, and for that I'll go to the College. I'll also try to improve in crafting and tempering equipment, and I guess I'm going to have to go to Eorlund Grey-Mane for that. Finally, I want to create a special blade for my personal use.'

'A blade that does what?'

'I've yet to understand how it would work, but I want it to be sturdy, somewhat thin and very long. I need to be able to use it with both hands or one hand only, so the handle needs to be long but the overall weight should be quite low. I wanted a slightly curved back edge, especially near the tip.'

'Why?'

'I don't like the swords that are made here, in Skyrim. They are straight. Thrusting requires precision and they don't slash all that effectively. Mine has to be able to slice effectively.'

'You seem to know very well what you want,' teased Faldrus, resting a hand on his knee and looking at the Assassin with a smirk.

Azrael tittered darkly. 'I wish,' he whispered.

'While we're on the subject,' rejoined Aranea. 'What is it you seek in the College?'

'I've been looking for a way to dispatch of the Dragons,' said Azrael, cracking his neck and sighing. 'A person with a great deal of knowledge on the matter has said that I might found the information we seek inside the College. It would be the obvious place to hold knowledge of magical entities. I could gather what I need quickly. Speaking of quickly, I should probably get moving. Company's nice and all, but almost four hours have passed since I strayed from the road.'

The Assassin stood up, and Faldrus found himself remembering all of a sudden how strangely tall he was. Azrael put the mask back on his face, concealing the beard and the long scar, and then the hood. He pushed the raven-black locks inside and then shrugged to readjust the cloak.

'Been good talking to you,' he said with a slight bow. 'So long.'

'Farewell, friend.'

'Twilight guide your path.'

* * *

Azrael walked down the mountain, returned to the road, and arrived in Winterhold a few hours after. It was twilight already. Orange rays were grazing the line of the mountains and dying the world of a reddish color. The large sheets of ice casted the light back, and the glimmers intertwined.

The Assassin kept thinking back of what Arngeir had told him about the Scrolls. 'Such blasphemies are the calling of mages, not followers of the Way', he had said. The Dragonborn, still not used to his new scorning side, had arched and eyebrow. The old man seemed to have accepted everything destiny brought. 'If the world is meant to end, so be it. Let it end and be reborn,' he had concluded, but Azrael didn't believe it. He had replied that they had summed him to High Hrothgar, that they had tried to teach him the Way of the Voice.

'That was different,' the Greybeard had said, standing, and finally interrupting his meditation session. 'Duty called for us at least as much as it did you. Doing what we're supposed to do isn't something to be taken lightly.'

'My point exactly,' the Assassin had answered. 'My duty, my fate, is to stop the World Eater. What would I be now if I refused my calling? I am what I am because men like you have shown me the way.'

'I admire your determination, Dovahkiin,' had admitted the old man. 'But this is different. Paarthurnax is sure to have told you. That's pure evil we're tackling with.'

'We follow the Path of Wisdom. Not the Path of Good.'

'I know.' Arngeir had bowed his head and brought both hands near his lap. 'But I fear what we're concerning ourselves with. The Scrolls, Dragonrend… We're trampling virtue and reason to get to our goal. I fear this will lead to nothing but suffering.'

'You don't know for sure,' Azrael had answered. 'You say we should let the world expire? But where is confirmation that that's the fate of this plane? Maybe the fate of this plane is surviving, thanks to a Dragonborn that trampled every moral and principle to save his world. You, Arngeir, Master.' It was the first time the Dragonborn called him by name. 'You try to judge, but without knowing anything. If you did, then I'd agree with you and I'd consign this world and its souls to the Void.'

The unemotional expression of the Greybeard had slightly changed into a satisfied and peaceful one. Deep inside his eyes, a spark of pride burnt. Azrael couldn't say anything to deny him that pleasure. It had been him, and partly Paarthurnax, who had taught him those things.

'The Voice of Wisdom is strong within you, Dovahkiin,' he had said. 'Go, then. Fulfill your fate, may that be death or triumph.'

Azrael had bowed his head and whispered his farewell: 'Lok Thu'um, Master.'

Now that he looked at those rays of light and that red glow coming from the ice, he thought that he liked that world too much to just let it die. It wasn't worth it. _A hopeless cynic clinging on to a thread of hope_ , he thought, laughing at himself. _Should I die doing this, I'd be happy nonetheless to have seen the end of the world. It made for some very entertaining moments._

After just a moment of thought, he realized how oddly cruel those opinions were. _A civil war harvesting lives and Dragons reaping even more. And instead of gathering to defeat them, humans just prefer to slaughter one another. Well…_ he said to himself, a sneer taking shape behind the mask. _I guess I truly am a hopeless cynic._


	8. Deepest Depths

Everyone is affected by his or her own madness. There are various forms of it, and reason is by far the worst one. Some others are more diverse, at times leading to better results than reason. The Assassin gave a lot more credit to those who have understood this than any other person. He had seen lots of different people in his adventures, and those who realized their own bondage were the ones that were truly free. Because of this, he had endured with stoic patience the stream of ramblings and explanations of Septimus Signus.

The scholar had spent hours explaining him about the Dwemer lockbox he was about to give him. Azrael had felt sorry he ever asked how it worked. But is spite of that, the Assassin had waited without interrupting. That man had understood his madness and had yielded to it. The Dragonborn couldn't help but show some respect, since his own form of madness was ambition. He had already yielded to it.

Before that, however, the reactions around the College had been many and diverse. The mages are mad with secrecy, especially since they were accused of the disaster that tore through part of Winterhold. There were some who were obsessed with it, while some others pretended to not care. Those that didn't care were the ones that feared retaliation, or blinded by their own pride. The only person Azrael had seen that seemed somewhat worthy of esteem was the librarian: Urag gro-Shub.

The Orc was a person who took his responsibility in both a serious and a light-hearted way. His task wasn't preserving the Arcaneum because it held thousands of years of knowledge et cetera… He cared for it as a Daedric Prince does while watching over his own realm. He didn't think of that library as a place where countless secrets are held, but as the one place he cares about. He treated it as his personal property, and didn't try to hide it. He had lost a bit of temper when Azrael had dryly commented that knowledge without intelligence is more a catastrophic hindrance than anything, but he regained his self-control quickly.

Urag also managed to be very helpful, as long as he respected the person that was talking to him. He had been scorning and scolding for the first half of the conversation, claiming all people came there seeking knowledge without even knowing where to start. But as soon as Azrael had told him he was Dragonborn, his attitude had immediately changed. Not only he had complied to all his requests, but also answered every one of his questions. By the time he departed, his store of knowledge on the Scrolls had become significantly richer. 'And since you're intelligent, that knowledge won't be a catastrophic hindrance,' had awkwardly joked the Orsimer.

Aside from that Orc, the other mages clearly showed their possession of everything a rabble of secluded sect members should. Faralda, the enchantress that had… "welcomed" him at the entrance, managed to reveal herself a not so subtle gossiper. Everyone around the College knew that the Dragonborn had passed by. Thankfully, nobody approached the hooded and extremely shadowy figure that asked around where the library was. And, oddly enough, nobody ever saw him going away. Azrael, sitting in the tavern, caught rumors of the Dragonborn escaping the College using a magical power that made him rush forward quick as the wind. The Assassin cursed himself for having shown Whirlwind Sprint to Faralda upon entering. _Could have just used Unrelenting Force on her. They'd be gluing her back together… In Oblivion,_ he said to himself.

After that, he had gone to Septimus' hideout. Finding it had been hard, but he had managed in a relatively short time. The crazy, old scholar had long discussed with the Dragonborn, who had ultimately set off for Alftand, the ruin that was supposedly the nearest to their position. The descent had been long, but surprisingly not boring. The Assassin had first encountered some Khajiits; one of them attacked him on sight. He reeked of skooma and was probably blinded by the side-effects, and Azrael had no other choice than stabbing the poor sod. The others had reacted very badly at that and tried to kill him. This annoyed the Assassin, who disposed of both of them with precise cuts to the throat.

Further information had led the Dragonborn to the conclusion that someone had recently scavenged the ruins, and some notes he found had confirmed his hypothesis. Someone else had been trying to get into Blackreach. The fact that it was referred as a place that no living men has ever left alive had made him question the sanity of that action. But then again, not trying meant the end of the world, so there was no point in not trying.

The members of the expedition were still lying lifeless on the ground, not yet devoured by rot. The thin incisions left by the slim blades of the automatons were in plain sight. Azrael had followed the trail of corpses, while also finding some comfort in the fact that some of the machineries had been dispatched before his arrival. However, a lot of them hadn't. The group had used a stealthy technique to get past the automatons, and the corpses were of the ones that had failed in their sneaky quest.

Azrael had proceeded, ending up in a place the various journals and research notes referred to as "the Cathedral", and the name did the place justice. The ceiling was high, and the shimmering green lights that came from the Dwemer lamps gave the place a gloriously sinister look. He had found an awaken Dwarven Centurion, the largest type of automaton and the one he had the least experience with. All it really needed was a bit of knowhow. The Assassin had managed to climb on its back and sever the links that connected the steam engine to the thinking processors of the machine.

Not much farther, he had found the last two members of the expedition. And they were, for whatever reason, trying to kill one another. _This proved true that old rule Babette told me,_ he had thought, cutting down the winner. _As long as there are two people on a planet, someone is going to want someone dead._ He had later found out that they were discussing about the renown of the mission. Or at least he had deducted from the last entries in one of the two adventurers' diary. With the two dealt with, one killed by her friend and the other slain by the Assassin, Azrael really was the only person that was left. However, as he had barely heard one of the two pointing out, the entrance was open. Someone had been there before.

He was still resting in the hideout of said individual.

Sinderion. Azrael had guessed he was an Altmer just by the length of the skeleton. The flesh had disappeared, and the bones were exposed. Broken and riddled with arrows. The journal of the High Elf explained quite a bit about his past, although only the last entry was truly relevant. The Assassin had decided to take a loot at it as an odd bedtime reading. He hadn't slept in the last thirty-six hours or so, and was tired. The lack of light inside Blackreach was alienating and confusing. He completely lost track of time, but he had trusted his organism. If it required some sleep, all it needed to do was ask, and with a place like the house of the old alchemist to sleep in it wasn't a thing too dangerous.

Upon waking, Azrael had explored the huge underground world that was Blackreach. It was so big that it was divided in large sub-zones, and different types of creatures inhabited the various locations. Some ruins were packed to the brim with Falmer and, interestingly enough, human slaves. The Assassin couldn't fathom how they ended up there and how they managed to live, but all those questions were of very little importance. Their flesh had been just as soft as the one of their counter-parts on the surface when he culled them down. Maybe it's worth to point out that the population of that whole place was perceivably thinned after the passing of Azrael.

The Dragonborn had searched zealously for the Tower Mzark, but didn't find it. That place was huge. Hours of seeking had only served to show him how wide it really was. After an unspecified amount of time, he had returned to the hideout of Sinderion, climbed on the roof and peacefully sat there with his legs crossed and a scrap of paper on his lap, while using the viscous substance that fueled the dwarven lamps to create a map of the place. On his right, he could see a tower looming in the distance. He had gone near it once, and the smell surrounding it was so terrible that he decided to nickname it "Reeking Tower". Ahead of him was the largest section of the ruin, and it was the central point of the whole ruin, if anything because a huge dwemer orb hanged from the ceiling irradiating a blinding yellow light. To the left there was a kind of swamp, and it was where he had decided to head in the second part of the day.

He hadn't really found that much. Mostly Falmer, Chauruses, a Cave Giant and some of that Crimson Nirnroot Sinderion had been searching so thoroughly. It had earned him a hail of arrows in his belly, but well done for trying. Azrael harvested all he could and stored them in a satchel, thinking he could bring them to the that colleague of his that was mentioned in the journal. He had continued his search, and had found an empty building that looked like and armory of some kind. Further down that way, in the middle of a waterfall-filled lake, was an island with another ruin, this time with some Dwarven Spiders standing guard. _I think Calcelmo would gladly give up ten years of his life for five minutes of walking inside this place,_ the Assassin had thought.

He had drifted back to the center of the underground city after that. He had kept tracing lines and marking new location on his map, and he was beginning to understand how that whole buried metropolis fit together. He had wandered around, looking for more places that could have pointed him in the right way, but had only ended up exploring an old catacomb and a Dwarven hall filled with traps. The silver linings to all of that exploring had been two. First and less important, he discovered a strange secret. That "Reeking Tower" was actually inhabited and safeguarded by hordes and hordes of spiders, but as he ended up on a high ledge he had been previously unable to get to, he had managed to slide down a Nordic Wall, of all things, and learned another Word or Power from the text.

After that, he had returned to the main halls and investigated the huge, hanging orb. And that had been the second thing. He started examining it, trying to understand what it was made of and its resistance. He fired arrows at it, tried to understand something from the noise they made upon hitting the surface. All the projectiles got back on the ground, snapped in half. That ball was sturdy. Azrael tried something that was stupid and irrational at the same time, but that led to a mind-blowing result.

Arcadia told him that skilled alchemists know how to create explosives, but he didn't have any, and he had settled on the thing he possessed that probably created the most force. The Voice. Unrelenting Force transforms the Thu'um into pure physical force. That served its purpose, since the orb rang like a gong as soon as the Voice touched it. Azrael quickly guessed it was made of Dwemer hardened glass. However, after a matter of moments, something way more familiar than Falmer or humans had emerged from the gloom, roaring and spewing fire.

A Dragon truly was the last thing he had expected to find in there, but it explained the Word Wall. Blackreach must had been a Nordic settlement down there. It was impossible to say if the Dovah had been sleeping, slumbering or whatnot, but sure that had disturbed his nap. The arrival of the winged monster had completed the thinning of the population Azrael had begun earlier. Before Dragon and Dragonborn clashed, all the Falmer and their slaves had managed to get incinerated in one way or another.

It had been a while since the last time Azrael fought a Dragon. The beasts were huge and savage, true, but their number wasn't incredibly high. There were currently, as the Assassin had said to the two followers of Azura, six Dragons currently alive in Skyrim. Not a lot, but more would have certainly come, and more importantly they managed to move very far in short amounts of time, making them a constant danger. This Dragon, buried under the ground, certainly didn't disturb the surface, but it had tried to kill Azrael, who had felt the thrill of fighting a Dovah now that he knew more of them and of their powers.

The fight had been prolonged and brutal. Azrael had had to gather all his strength to survive the ruthless encounter. After the Dragon had exterminated every single remaining Falmer, it landed outside of the main halls, onto the derelict road that seemed to go down the underground metropolis. The Assassin had gotten near it after a minute or so, dodging the cascades of fire the Dovah gushed. And once he had gotten close to it, it hadn't become any easier. The Dragon was somewhat agile for its size, and that time Delphine wasn't there to help or distract it. It had clawed, bit and tail-slashed for the entire duration of the fight.

Azrael had had to maintain maximum concentration for the entire duration of the struggle. Adrenaline had played against him, quickening his survival reflexes but also making his arm shake and his legs tremble. The Dragon had kept avoiding his hits or forcing him to stop in his tracks and evade. That time, at least, Azrael had a weapon that could cause serious injury even if it hit a scale. Chillrend had hurt and injured the Dragon in the same way it would have with a man. However, the icy blade had been kept far from all its marks for the first half of the fight.

After, thing had changed. Azrael had dodged a claw swipe, rolled away from a sweep done with the wing and gained some distance. The Dragon wasted no time.

'Yol… Toor Shul!' The Voice had materialized and fire had been about to flood the terrain in front of it. However, the response had been immediate.

'Fus… Ro Dah!'

The Thu'um of the Dragonborn echoed in the dwemer city like a roll of thunder. The gust had dispersed the flames and put them out, while also smashing into the Dragon and making it tumble backwards. The beats had roared, and smoke had come out of its mouth.

The fight had changed its dynamics from there on. Azrael had immediately exploited his advantage and had dashed forward, hitting the neck of the Dragon with a thrust. Chillrend had sunk deep in the flesh of the beast, and ice had begun to creep up the scales and freezing the neck of the winged monster. The stillness that it had felt inching up his neck made the beast fiercer, and by the time the combatants had returned to the their respective positions, the psychological equilibrium was slightly in favor of the Assassin.

They kept fighting. Brothers slaying one another. Azrael had even thought about that Dragon being mad. It never could have been aware of Alduin's return, and there was no motive for him to attack someone on sight that way. Also, the way it walked and fought, so brutish and physical, didn't seem to add up. It wasn't like any other Dragons the Assassin had encountered, which approached him with a lot more care and with a lot more flying overhead yelling flames at him.

Claw sweep, sword thrust. Tail slash, pirouette and stab. Wing sweep, tip pierce. That regular repetition of movements had played out in a contentious loop, that had left the Dragonborn more tired every time it had been repeated. Keeping the pace without stopping had tested his endurance, and especially his breath. He hadn't been left with the chance to breathe since the beginning. He was used to fighting humans, battle that come with a much slower rhythm.

He had decided to try his luck. Or rather, since there had been very little luck involved, push his abilities to the very extreme. He had darted ahead, head on and right in the face of the winged beast. He had feigned a sidestep, and the Dragon had fallen for it. It had swiped the air on his left, but the Assassin had had just used the counter-weight and had leapt to the opposite side, tracing a wide arch above his head with the sword. By the time the Dragon had realized that a new cut had been opened on his chin, a new one had appeared on the abdomen. And yet another on the rear pod.

That had been the end of it, pretty much. The Dragon couldn't do more than sway around and try to reach for the Assassin with its claws, but none of the swipes had connected. The Dragonborn, on the other hand, managed to slash the head of the winged beast. It had tried to dodge, but the next things it had felt was Chillrend being plunged into his skull.

Azrael was exhausted when he had gotten back to Sinderion's. He had crafted himself a potion with the ingredients left in the Altmer's hideout. Babette had taught him how to craft a potion that eases muscle tension and lessens the production of lactic acid. Good thing that Sinderion kept three pieces of Fly Amanita and also a sample of Mora Tapinella in there, or the potion would had been impossible to make.

It had been a long day. Azrael thought back to it all, while resting against the wall and reading the alchemy book that the Altmer had left there. Not some bedtime light reading, but with a skeleton in the room there's no such thing as too dark or too menacing. The Dragonborn had finally discovered where to access Tower Mzark, and the plans for the next day was to get there in one piece.

For the time being, he needed some sleep.

* * *

A/N: As you'll all be able to tell, we'll slowly but steadily nearing the end. We're not there yet, but we're nearing it. Still, there is something that's being… surprising me, in a way. I chose to depict Azrael as a morally grey, cynical, scorning character, but it seemed to me he still retained some of his humanity. However, the comments some of you guys are leaving me give a different interpretation. I've read Azrael described as a " heartless butcher", an "antagonistic protagonist", a "person with many flaws" and "unfeeling murder machine" even. It was interesting to read, and I'm curious: is that a common feeling, or is that an isolated idea? I'd be glad to hear from you. Send me a message, leave a review, do what you will. If you don't want, don't do anything. It's just mere curiosity.

Godspeed, my friends.


	9. Fall from Heaven

For three days, Azrael had carried the Elder Scrolls on his hip, and he had realized he was too used to stories displaying Daedric Artifacts. He guessed the Scrolls would have influenced him, maybe prevented him from sleeping. But no. The Scroll didn't have any effect whatsoever on him.

After having gone through Dwemer machineries and traps, the troubles of the road and another ride to reach High Hrothgar, he had finally arrived to the Throat of the World. With the Elder Scroll. Acquiring it had required even more adventuring and delving into dangerous places, but that seemed to be how the world went. Every powerful object on Nirn seemed to already be in the hands of someone else or deep under the ground.

Azrael had to give a point to Paarthurnax, who hadn't warned him the journey would have been difficult. Normally, he would be overwhelmed with warnings and advice about the mission given by whoever instructed him, even if the task was painfully simple. The Dragon had sent him in the maws of the earth to recover what they needed, and pointed him there without any scruple. The Dovah knew its younger brother was fit for the task, and it didn't bother with recommendations. Caring and being concerned clearly were mortal attitudes; attitudes that bored the Assassin to no end.

But the Dragon, watching from the top of a boulder, was so beyond those mortal habits to the point of not even bothering to greet him.

'You have it,' the Dragon said. 'The Kel… The Elder Scroll.'

Paarthurnax, unlike Azrael, seemed to perceive the presence of the object. _It appears that supernatural roll of paper has its own tastes…_ the Dragonborn thought, a sneer touching the corners of his lips. The Dragon didn't even seem interested in how he had gotten possession of the item. The thought didn't trouble it, because it calmly continued to talk.

'Tiid kreh… qalos,' it said. 'Time shudders at its touch. There is no question. You are doom-driven. Kogaan Akatosh. The very bones of the earth are at your disposal. Go then. Fulfill your destiny. Take the Scroll to the Time-Wound. Do not delay. Alduin will be coming. He cannot miss the signs.'

The Assassin slowly stepped towards the center of the area. He held the Scroll in his hands, and although it didn't influence him directly it surely changed the world around him. There was a spot, somewhere ahead, where a kind of sixth sense perceived a whirl. A hurricane. A kind of circular movement that stretches the texture of reality to the point of rupturing it.

He stood in the center of that tear in the fabric of Time, and he unfolded the Scroll.

Those moments were the ones when Azrael felt his immortal soul saving him from death and madness. For a moment, as he read it, he saw it completely blank. But as fractions of seconds flew by, the Scroll drew power and substance from the rupture in Time and absorbed its energy. The Assassin realized where he was standing: it was, quite simply, collateral damage. Someone had opened that rupture long ago, and it had failed to close completely. He could feel it.

Even as he put the Scroll down and his arms started to get heavier, the Dragonborn saw a runic shape shimmer before him. As the rune faded, a vortex sucked him into another place. Another plane of the fabric of creation. Since the past doesn't exist, not anymore, traveling through space and time felt almost like the same thing.

* * *

When he emerges, everything is dyed red. The place he sees is the same place where he left, but also a completely different one. His senses merge, and he can't say if he is hearing, seeing or just imagining what is unfolding before him.

And the first thing he hears is a voice:

'Gormlaith! We're running out of time! The battle…'

A muffled crash. A mist of thin snow raising and shrouding the shape of a Dovah. The rumbling of its unnatural voice.

'Daar sul thur se Alduin vokrii. Today Alduin's lordship will be restored. But I honor your courage. Krif voth ahkrin. Die now, in vain.'

A battle cry. A roar. A flood of flames filling his perception. The clamor of the battle. A great axe being swung. Teeth being clenched. A shape, another shape, a woman, that runs in. The screeching of metal. A muffled blare. A roar of pain, and lastly the woman's voice.

'Know that Gormlaith sent you down to death!'

A last snarl of pain. Then that voice again.

'Hakon! A glorious day, is it not!'

'Have you no thought beyond the blooding of your blade?'

'What else is there?'

'The battle below goes ill. If Alduin does not rise to our challenge, I fear all may be lost.'

'You worry too much, brother. Victory will be ours.'

A third man, an old one, that comes from behind the tear in Time. He is the source of the rupture, the Dragonborn feels it. He holds the Scroll, and is the link between the Dovahkiin's time and his. The first shape speaks to the newcomer.

'Why does Alduin hang back? We've staked everything on this plan of yours, old man.'

'He will come,' he answers. 'He cannot ignore our defiance. And why should he fear us, even now?'

'We've bloodied him well. Four of his kin have fallen to my blade alone this day,' says the woman.

'But none have yet stood against Alduin himself. Galthor, Sorri, Birkir…'

'They did not have Dragonrend. Once we bring him down, I promise I will have his head.'

'You do not understand. Alduin cannot be slain like a lesser dragon. He is beyond our strength. Which is why I brought the Elder Scroll.'

Only now the old man pulls the Scroll out and reveals to him comrades. The strength of the link increases. More voices.

'Felldir! We agreed not to use it!'

'I never agreed. And if you are right, I will not need it.'

'No. We will deal with Alduin ourselves, here and now.'

'We shall see soon enough. Alduin approaches!'

'So be it.'

The World Eater emerges from naught. Strangely, his presence seems to increase on both ends of the tear.

'Meyye! Tahrodiis aanne! Him hinde pah liiv! Zu'u hin daan!'

'Let those that watch from Sovngarde envy us this day!'

And then the shroud gets broken. The veil is torn asunder. The Words of Death are spoken.

'Joor… Zah Frul!'

The presence of the World Eater thins on the past end of the tear. A crash. The Devourer of Worlds lands, and looks at its enemies' eye to eye. It is incandescent.

'Nivahriin joorre! What have you done? What twisted Words have you created?! Tahrodiis Paarthurnax! My teeth to his neck! But first... dir ko maar. You will die in terror, knowing your final fate… To feed my power when I come for you in Sovngarde!'

'If I die today, it will not be in terror,' says the woman. 'You feel fear for the first time, worm. I see it in your eyes. Skyrim will be free!'

The ring of blades striking scales. Growls. Unnatural growls of an unnatural creature. Deep inside the currents of time, Azrael feels it. Its power is immense, so immense it cannot be controlled. The Firstborn of Akatosh strikes, and a soul gets consumed. One of the shapes, the woman, is thrown away.

'No, damn you! It's no use! Use the Scroll, Felldir! Now!'

'Hold, Alduin on the Wing! Sister Hawk, grant us your sacred breath to make this contract heard! Begone, World-Eater! By words with older bones than your own we break your perch on this age and send you out! You are banished! Alduin, we shout you out from all our endings unto the last!'

'Faal Kel...?! Nikriinne…'

The influence of the World Eater dies in the past rim of the tear. At the same time, it grows enormously on its present part. The Time-wound closes, and the rims become one. The tear weaves together, and the fabric restores itself. The rift is sealed.

* * *

Cold. The first thing Azrael felt when perception finally came back, was cold. A freezing, dry breeze that was chilling him to the bone. The sky glittered, and his blurred gaze couldn't make out any details just yet. He saw the colors, at least. Mostly red. A strong, dark orange light that was half hidden behind an obstacle. It was the Sun setting. It was dusk. He couldn't say exactly how much time he had spent looking into the tear, and probably there was no rational calculation that could give him that answer.

Slowly and gradually, he regained control over his body. As soon as he sensed his lungs filling and emptying of air, he controlled the breathing. In from the nose, out from the mouth. With every breath, his senses recovered their precision. He could feel his heart beating again. It was slow and regular, as usual. His blood pumping in his veins warmed him, as if the fire that gave him birth still burned somewhere within him.

The touch was the first to fully recover. The cold, the coarse gloves and the slightly uncomfortable sensation of the water dripping through the joints of the armor. Then smell and taste, but he didn't sense a whole lot aside from a sour flavor in his mouth. After that, hearing. It was then that he heard a regular rustling, that sounded like something big being swayed in the air. When his sight cleared, the shimmering black outlines he previously saw took the unmistakable shape on the World Eater, floating mid-air and beating its enormous black wings.

No fear of the executioner beheading him. No dark clouds blocking off the daylight. Only the blood red radiance of the Sun setting. Alduin looked down at the Assassin, his spiked crest glittering bleakly and its figure casting a dark shadow on the ground. Azrael glared back at it. His elder brother. His enemy. His nemesis. The slate grey scales, the teeth sharp and long, the claws of the same size as sabers.

The two crossed gazes, and no one won.

'Bahloki nahkip sillesejoor!' roared the Devourer of Worlds. 'My belly is full of the souls of your fellow mortals, Dovahkiin.'

 _And mine is full with the ones of your fellow Dragons, Alduin,_ Azrael thought, smirking behind the mask and grabbing a small flask from his bandolier. _You believe yourself invincible, dear sibling, but immortality doesn't mean invincibility. Not quite._

'Die now… and await your fate in Sovngarde!'

Alduin arched its entire body and flew forward, without ever stopping to beat its wings. Azrael breathed deeply, uncorked the flask and drank the mixture to the last drop. As the brew flowed down his throat and mingled with his blood, he heard Paarthurnax taunting its elder twin.

'Lost funt. You are too late, Alduin!'

The synthetic heat permeated the Assassin's skin and flesh. He slowly drew Chillrend out of the sheath. The malachite shone in the blood red light of the twilight, and the ravenous hiss of the ice filled the air with its sinister notes. Azrael lowered his hood a bit more with his left hand, and then rose his gaze to look at the black Dragon.

'Dovahkiin!' Paarthurnax roared. 'Use Dragonrend, if you know it!'

The Worlds of Death. How strange that a language created by immortals possessed concepts that could describe mortality and decay in such a precise and real way. They were three, simple runes, but they were everything mortals feel. They were a synthesis of the sense of time passing by, the feeling of the material world decaying and the true, cruel reality of the void that awaited beyond existence. Death. It is true that one, upon learning it, becomes the Shout. That was maybe why Azrael, of all people, had been chosen as Dragonborn. Dragonrend was a concept that was as normal to him as the one of hunger or thirst. It was Death, and he faced it and lived with it every day. He was the Ender. He was the Assassin. He was Death made flesh.

Air filled his lungs, the Voice crept up his throat as he lowered the mask. Everything in his body that was mortal answered the call of the Word. The dead cells on his skin, the rotten and decaying parts of his blood and lymph that were only waiting to be banished from his flesh. The body continuously changes, and there is death beyond measure in our living cages of flesh and blood. Months of killing, slaying, slaughtering, annihilating and dying fueled the Shout.

The Worlds of Death were spoken.

'Joor… Zah Frul!'

A blue whirlwind reached the World Eater. The Dragon reeled, swaying, struggling to stay in the air. Azrael barely moved his legs, and watched where the huge winged beast was going to land. Not even the Devourer of Worlds could withstand the power of those Words. Paarthurnax had taken off and was circling above, looking at its older brother as it tumbled to the ground.

 _Walk this earth on two feet as I do…_ Azrael said to it in his mind. _Now we're on even footing. Well, not for you, but for me, definitely._

Alduin crashed against the rocks. An azure aura encircled him, as if the strength of the Words were still binding him firmly to the ground. It moved its neck nervously, very quickly, as if it felt very uncomfortable about something.

'You are no match for me, joor!'

The Dragonborn and his nemesis faced off, amidst the snow, on the very peak of the Throat of the World. They looked at one another and glared at one another. The mortal made the first move, and darted fast as the wind towards his enemy. Alduin arched its neck and roared loudly at the sky.

Azrael sidestepped at the last possible second, looking at the sky as it seemed to crack. A bottomless black chasm opened, and blazing meteors started falling from it. _I remember this…_ he thought, keeping an eye on both the bolides and huge, winged monster crawling towards him.

'Lok… Vah Koor!'

The sky cleared. The chasm closed shut, the meteors blasted apart in mid-air and rained a hail of embers on them. And then it began.

Alduin swiped with its clawed wing. The Assassin ducked, evading the sharp end of the talon and retaliated. Mustering all the strength he could, he thrusted right in between two neck scales. On any other Dragon, that was a soft spot. He counted on it doing some damage. The strike had been placed correctly, and the prediction of the movements of the Dragon had also been correct, but sheer tension and the adrenaline rushing in his veins made his arm tremble.

The strike missed the target by mere inches. The tip of the blade didn't penetrate the scale, and didn't leave much of anything on it. _Lucky me this sword was crafted with magic…_ Azrael said to himself. _It would be a bent, broken pile of shards, otherwise._

Alduin exploited the enemy's mistake and leaned on the wing he had used to strike. The Assassin just about managed to backpedal and not be crushed under the Dragon weight. The Dragon attacked again, very quickly, and tried to bite him. This time it was Azrael's turn to take advantage of the nemesis' mistake. The razor-sharp teeth clutched, but didn't hit anything. Alduin lost sight of the Dunmer for just a moment, only to sense a painful chill near the joint of its right wing.

As is often the case, the perception of the mistake was different. What seemed a deplorable error to the Dragon looked like a wasted occasion to the Dovahkiin. Azrael had struck the left upper leg, but the sword had just grazed the flesh underneath the scales. Those organic plates were hard. Any warrior would have surrendered his or her own souls for an armor as durable as that.

Alduin turned, raising on its legs, opening its wings to their full span and roared to the sky. Azrael did a fluid pirouette and backed away from the enemy. A simple flail of the clawed wings could have cost him the battle. He casted a glance at the sky, looking for Paarthurnax. The second-born of Akatosh hovered above them in circles, without exposing too much.

'Alduin will not stay to the ground forever!' the Dragon warned him, catching his glance. 'Dov Unslaad Sil. Dov are immortal by nature.'

The Assassin didn't bother with nodding. He needed to focus, and knew that Paarthurnax didn't need any confirmation. The World Eater slowly laid on the ground again, watching the Dragonborn with its golden, bottomless eyes. Azrael leapt back once again, keeping some distance between him and his adversary.

Alduin did a short hop onward, closing the distance and keeping the Assassin under pressure. A sweep of the wing made him move back further. There was a way to escape, on the left of the Dragon, and he tried to make good use of that. The World Eater interrupted his movements by snapping its row of teeth when he intended to roll.

Azrael bit his lip, realizing that he was being pushed backwards and backwards, nearer to the side of the mountain. He tried to sidestep and then flip to open ground, but Alduin swiftly extended its wing and blocked him. He did a backward somersault and incorrectly thought he was safe.

Alduin bent its neck.

'Yol…'

The Assassin glanced around. A rock on the left, a big mount of snow on the right and a steep slope behind him. He realized that there was nowhere to go. He looked back at the Dragon, as if that helped.

'…Toor Shul!'

Azrael reacted too slowly. The flame flood smashed against him before he could make any kind of elusive maneuver or attempted response. The flames consumed the cloth and the leather, burning them to ashes. The metal heated almost as far as bending and melting, but not quite. It would have, had the suit not been enchanted. Azrael felt the pain warping him. A wave of heat seared through his body, incinerating the skin as it touched it.

Alduin thrashed his left wing down on him and slashed his chest with its talons. The sharp end of the claw nibbled at his chest, carving large marks in the already dented chest plate. The strength of the flap tossed the Assassin aside. His head smashed against a rock and blood dripped down his temple and split eyebrow. Red drops fell in the snow.

But the next thing he felt was something very familiar and yet very surprising.

 _That was sizzling and quite depressing, but I'm alive. Or I feel as if I do._

He lied face in the snow, his arms aching and his head emitting sharp blows of pain. His armor was burnt and in pieces. The chest plate had been ripped to shreds by the claw-swipe and the flammable parts, both the leather of the cuirass and the cloth of the hood, had been incinerated. The talons had pierced the metal and left bloody gashes on his torso. His quiver lay several meters away, snapped in two, with all the arrows in contained dispersed around it. The bow, the bow of the Nightingales, had sunk in the snow. The Blade of Woe was still securely fastened to his belt by miracle, and Chillrend was a fair distance away.

And despite all of that, he was alive. Being born a Dunmer and having ingested a potion that augmented his resistance to heat saved his life. Though his armor was in shreds, some of which were still attached to his body, he was pretty much unscathed. His skin was heated and burnt, but it didn't hurt. His hair, thought long, hadn't caught fire. He wasn't burning alive like any other normal mortal would be. He was, in a manner of speaking, pretty much fine.

The World Eater looked at him imperturbably.

'I'm forged in fire, Alduin,' the Assassin said, standing on his feet and looking at the black Dragon. 'You'll not kill me with flames.'

'And you will not kill me, either,' replied the Dovah in his low, cavernous voice. 'Dovahkiin, you call yourself? Arrogant mortal. Maar Saraan Ko Sovngarde. You will pay for your defiance!'

The Assassin tittered grimly and raised, holding his wounded chest. 'You think I'll lose this day?'

'Joor Enook Sul Saan. Mortals always lose. My time has come again.'

Azrael grabbed the Blade of Woe from his belt. The last weapon he had left.

'As it should, so it shall be.'

Azrael growled and gripped the Blade of Woe tighter. He was in a rough position. He truly felt like an arrogant mortal, in that moment. He had nowhere to run and was at the mercy of the World Eater. Willing or not, he was prey.

Alduin opened his maws again. A roll of thunder burst from them.

'Fus… Ro Dah!'

The Assassin sidestepped but didn't manage to avoid the blast entirely. Even while being cast backwards, he smirked at the thought that he was now feeling what lots of people had felt when he himself had used those Words. And in spite of everything, he hit the ground quite well. Hit the snow, really. There was a five meter thick layer of snow between him and the rock at the bottom of the slope leading up the the very peak.

Alduin took off. He pounded its wings and roared deafeningly. Azrael shook his head, trying to regain perception. He considered recovering the bow for a moment, but abandoned the idea immediately. It would have taken too much time. He spent those precious moments touching his chest lightly and mending it with the little he knew of healing spells. The abrasion on the temple also hurt and bled a lot. No surprise there. He was breathing very heavily and his heart was beating quite rapidly and very strongly. The blood was flowing across the body in the desperate attempt to fuel it with oxygen, but that same speed caused the heavy bleeding.

Seeing the Dragonborn in trouble, Paarthurnax decided to risk it. He knew Alduin was far stronger, but had to try and distract its brother. The World Eater wasn't even looking at his younger twin, and didn't suspect an attack from that side. With a powerful beat of the wings and a tail lash Paarthurnax shifted direction and dived against its elder brother.

'Yol… Toor Shul!'

Azrael finished mending what injuries he could and freed his feet from the snow. He looked at Paarthurnax, who had recklessly attacked Alduin from the side. The scorching gust twirled around the black Dragon for a moment. The second-born collided with its brother mid-air and drove both to the ground.

The Assassin half-closed his eyes, more in a scornful way than anything, when he heard the crash of Alduin hitting the ground. They were quite far from him, and the two seemed to be very determined to kill each other. For the first time since the beginning of the fight, he was not the focus of the attention. He ran towards the two, while very grim outcomes started to prospect for Paarthurnax.

The two Dovah clawed and bit one another, but Alduin quickly freed himself from the lower position and trapped its younger sibling with its huge black wing. Teeth snapped, claws scraped scales.

'My teeth to your neck, Paarthurnax!' roared Alduin.

'Ni Daar Sul, Alduin! Not this day!'

But it could have happened that day, and not too late. Alduin closed its jaws on Paarthurnax's throat and started pressing. The growls of pain echoed over the battlefield as the razor-sharp teeth sank deeper and deeper into the enemy's neck. The scales got pierced, cut and shattered by the amount of weight Alduin was exerting.

In the distance, far from the siblings fighting, came a low whisper.

'Wuld… Nah Kest!'

A moment more, and Alduin would have clutched its teeth and snapped the neck of its sibling in two. The World Eater could feel the screams of pain as it died, and the satisfaction of having finally dispatched of the traitor in its own ranks. But the Dragonborn, especially this one, is not famous for giving free satisfactions.

Alduin had to ease the bite when the tip of a blade was plunged in its rear claw.

Azrael had found a soft spot. The sinews went down the back of the leg, and there was but a thin scale to protect those. He pushed with all the strength he could muster, dipping the Blade of Woe into the leg of the Dragon. Alduin was struggling to move it, but swaying sideways only helped the Assassin increasing the size of the injury.

The World Eater wasn't stupid. After having sensed where the blade had hit, it understood how to move. The black Dragon moved its leg forward, forcing the Dragonborn to pull the blade out.

This once it was Alduin who moved too slowly. Azrael recovered from the attack, regained his stance, and rolled to the side just in time to avoid the claw stomping the ground and slamming in his face. Paarthurnax, although with the neck dotted of scars of the bite, managed to sweep the wing across and strike Alduin on the head.

The black Dragon saw no other way than get out of there. He was two against one. It slashed the ground with its tail one last time to create some space and pounded its wings. Paarthurnax disengaged, moving nearer to the stone wall. The Dragonborn got hurled backwards by the powerful gusts and reeled back, holding a hand over his eyes to stop the snow from flying straight into them.

'I have feasted on many greater than you, Dovahkiin!'

Alduin had spoken in the language of mortals, and the Dragonborn answered in the language of the Dov.

'Joor… Zah Frul!'

Azrael gasped for air immediately after having shouted. He had kept a potion suited to disperse adrenaline and lessen exhaustion, but it had probably fallen against the rock and shattered when the bandoliers burned. Nevertheless, a wicked sneer of cruel delight played out on his lips when he saw the black Dragon roar in fear and crash against the ground. The Shout had drained his power and drawn him down. The blood red light of the twilight now illumined its motionless body.

'Now, Dovahkiin!' roared Paarthurnax. 'This is your chance!'

The Assassin didn't need anyone to tell him that. He darted onward, twirling the blade in his wrist to prepare for the series of hits he had to pull off. He aimed for the side, which was the exposed spot and the most vulnerable of the ones exposed. Normally it's the belly, but Alduin had landed with its abdomen conveniently hidden under its whole mass.

Azrael reached his target and extended his arm, preparing for the whirlwind of hits. His forearms hurt, the temple was still bleeding and he was covered in blood and sweat which were flowing down his half-naked body swiftly and abundantly. But he was ready, and he was still strong. His eyes blazed crimson, his very skin burned of living, breathing fire.

Alduin moved its head, but couldn't do a thing.

Azrael grabbed the blade with both hands and swiped the leg obliquely, aiming for the junction between the scales and ripping the tissue open. He shifted, moving his arms all the way across to the left and tearing a long and gaping rent in the black wing. He dashed again, this time to the right, and gashed the neck with a long slash. He ended that last spin with a pirouette, getting away from the head of Alduin.

The black Dragon curved its neck, but Azrael acted quicker.

'Fus… Ro Dah!'

The gust made the Dovah tumbled back. Azrael dashed, grabbing the Blade of Woe with one hand and putting the other on his clenched fist that gripped the dagger. He bashed the Dragon with his shoulder, since his pauldron was still somewhat intact, and then sank the blade into the eye of the Dragon.

A scream of pain shredded the air.

Alduin produced a growl so deep it compelled Azrael to back off. The Assassin stood watching, preparing for another strike, but the World Eater wasn't going to attack. It raised on its wings, the head dangling down helplessly. Deep, golden eyes started into the ones of the Dragonborn.

'Meyz mul, Dovahkiin. You have become strong,' it said a in snarl. 'But I am Alduin, Firstborn of Akatosh! Mulaagi zok lot! I cannot be slain here, by you or anyone else! You cannot prevail against me. I will outlast you… mortal!'

The black Dragon beat its wings, with enormous fatigue, and soared.

'Ni yah rok,' roared Paarthurnax. 'Don't follow in, Dovahkiin. You've done your part, for now.'


	10. War Never Changes

Eorlund Grey-Mane was working at his forge, as he did every day. The heat of the forge was everything he wanted from life. Every morning he'd wake up, have breakfast with whatever he needed to survive the morning and then go to the forge. He worked alone. The only exceptions were when he needed to talk to someone, in which case he'd call them to the Skyforge. He hated talking while doing nothing. It was waste of time.

That morning thought, he had stopped talking to some guards before going to the forge. There were rumors around about the Dragonborn having arrived into the city by night. The gossip was vague and confused, and half of it was surely made up, but Eorlund trusted what the soldiers had to say on the matter. They were quite informed, minus a few, and if they didn't know something they said exactly that. They didn't make things up like plenty of people did in that city.

'The night sentinels said he entered the city wearing a black robe and carrying a huge backpack,' one had said. 'He didn't even try to hide. He walked in front of the main gate and asked the permission to enter. They didn't recognize him immediately, the hood he wore obscured his face down to the eyes, but when he remarked that he was Thane they immediately welcomed him and offered him a bed in the barracks.'

A few people claimed to have seen him, but his presence wasn't persistent. There had been moments in the morning during which no one had seen him. There were also moments during which three people had been supposedly talking to him at the same time, but that's gossip backfiring. Nothing too exciting. Regardless, it felt as if a ghost was walking around the city. At times, casually, someone would turn and see a hooded black figure walking around and talking to someone. Arcadia, Ysolda, Jon, Elrindir, Jenassa, Adrianne and Lucia had talked to him or at least seen him.

Eorlund had gone straight to the forge, just like every morning. He had work to do. But the rumors reached him even up there.

'No,' had answered Arcadia when people had asked her whether she knew the motive of his visit. 'He walked inside, asked for some ingredients and started brewing. I was stunned to see him, but he did everything calmly and relaxed. When I asked him what he'd been up to, he just smirked… You know, the way he does.' She also said a little something that sounded quite interesting to the mob. 'His voice wasn't clear and deep as always, thought. It was suffocated, a bit hoarse. He kept sneezing and sniffling, cursing quietly at times.'

The people had begun to inquire deeper into the matter, and after a bit of pressure Adrianne Avenicci had admitted that the Dragonborn had come to her. She was nervous, and kept fumbling her words. 'He, you know, was here just to buy material.' But the rabble is never content with the vague or imprecise news. It hungers for details. 'He needed some crafting materials,' she thus explained. 'He showed me some refined leather and asked me it was any good to craft some armor. He then bought a couple of pieces of thick fabric and a flask of scarlet dye. He also bought a single ingot of refined malachite, the best one I had in stock. He chose for himself. He didn't say anything else, I swear.' At this point she closed the door of the store shut and left her husband at the counter for a moment.

Lastly, the Assassin was supposed to have made a precise request to Elrindir, the owner of the Drunken Huntsman and the best fletcher of that part of Skyrim. 'He came in as if it was the most normal thing in the world, and requested me a back quiver,' the Bosmer told. 'A very special back quiver, made of copper and leather and reinforced with steel. He showed me a sort of draft he had with him. He told me his previous one snapped in two, but refused to tell me how. He also asked for twenty arrows, and not just any arrow: he needed elven ones. They're so rare! I'll have to empty the counter to buy some of those. At least he's promised me to pay them all back, plus a bonus. He's not an honest guy, but he rewards hard work.'

Eorlund would have rejoined, specifying that he also kept good suppliers happy with on-time payments, but he wasn't present. He was at his forge, like every morning.

But unlike every morning, he received a visit. A very sudden, unexpected visit.

'I see you haven't gotten tired of hammering metal, have you?'

Eorlund locked every muscle up tight. The voice coming from behind him was gruff and deep. The tone was wry and teasing, provocative in a friendly way. The old blacksmith might have not recognized it without seeing the person, but the light trace of the harsh Dunmeri accent led to him into making a wild guess.

'Azrael?'

'Got that right, old man.'

Eorlund turned around and halted again upon seeing him. Now that he thought of it, the guard did mention that he was pretty beaten up, but he had never imagined anything like that. Just above the eyebrow there was a thick scab, probably what was left of a wound. On the temple were grazes and abrasions; bandaged up until a few days before, the old man guessed. The wounds were fresh. Nothing that compared to the signature scar on the cheek, but that had fully healed by that time.

The old blacksmith got up and marched towards him with a genuine smile of happiness. The two slapped one another on the back with a laugh and then sat together on the side of the forge.

'How long has it been?' asked the old man.

'Long enough,' answered Azrael, slowly reclining on the stones. He wore a black tunic and did carry the huge backpack everyone was talking about. Eorlund himself wondered what it contained.

'What did you come here for?'

'Well, first a present…' said the Assassin, grabbing a bottle from the backpack he carried and throwing it to the Nord. He grabbed it mid-air. 'Mead,' explained Azrael. 'Bought it as a present. I needed to cheer you up first, then we can talk business.'

Eorlund trusted him. Had it been another, he would have thought he was there to trick him. The mead might have been drugged, or just meant to get a better price. You could reason like this with Azrael, but only if you were a no one to him. Eorlund trusted in the esteem the Assassin had for him, and hoped he was right. And he was.

The two both drunk from the same bottle, telling about each other's lives.

'Well, a sword one day and an axe the next,' told Eorlund. 'Nothing overly special ever happens here. To me, anyway. Outside the walls there's a war raging, but I only get involved in it when I'm asked to smith a weapon for this soldier or that other. So long as they pay and let me do what I love, I'm fine with it.'

'Yeah, you've told me about this already,' replied the Assassin, nodding slowly. 'And I've already told you how that traits makes you a surprisingly agreeable person to me.'

'Aye, you've told me. That's what allows me to live. I'm fine here, working by myself. The Companions have been busy as ever, and their swords haven't stopped dulling. There will always be work for me here, till the end of my days. But, Azrael… If you don't mind me asking, what's in that backpack of yours?'

The lips of the Elf formed a sly grin. He took off the thing from his shoulders and put it down between the blacksmith and himself. He didn't say a word, he just unknotted the ropes that held it close.

Once done, he unwrapped the items hidden inside.

The old man arched an eyebrow and whistled in admiration.

'This is the favor I wanted to ask of you,' the Assassin elaborated.

'You didn't need any mead to make me do this,' commented Eorlund, picking up the metal plates and pieces of coated leather. 'This is the armor you used to wear, am I right?'

'It is.'

'How did it happen?'

'Was fighting a Dragon, one that breathed fire…' said the Assassin, his voice even more hoarse. He coughed, sneezed, swore under his breath, and then raised his head again. He had caught a cold, of all things. 'He spewed flames on me and I was too slow to react.'

'Spewed flames on you? How is it that you're here talking to me here? You look surprisingly alive.'

'Well, firstly I'm a Dunmer. Secondly, I had drunk an elixir just before charging on into battle. The two things combined rendered me almost immune to any heat. Only my body though, not what I'm wearing. The armor got completely charred. The metal melted and bent and the cloth and leather parts were completely obliterated.'

'You got everything needed to repair it?'

'Yes.'

'Is it all here?'

'Yes.'

'Do you want your hood crimson as the last one?'

'Sure as Oblivion I do,' said the Assassin, taking a red flask out of the backpack. 'Adrianne gave me this. It's scarlet, but…'

'Don't you worry, I'll adjust the tint to your liking. And the malachite ingot?'

Azrael picked up a leather layer, rolled on itself. He unfolded it slowly and gently. The coating concealed a malachite blade imbued with frost that began to emit a white vapor as soon as the air came in contact with it. Eorlund casted a critical glance at the weapon, and concluded it wasn't just a masterpiece. It was something more. That weapon was more than a good sword, it was true art.

'While you repair my armor, I'll borrow your grindstone and fix this beauty. I unwisely thrust it against the thickest scales of the Dragon, and it came close to breaking. I need to straighten the blade and grease it.'

'You do know a lot about blacksmithing.'

'I've had a good teacher.'

* * *

'We need to fortify our defenses. Irileth, double the number of the night sentinels from now on.'

'Yes, my Jarl.'

'Proventus, you'll be in charge of an investigation. We need to know for sure how much food we have in case of a siege.'

'What about the water, my lord?'

'We can cleanse the one we kept in case of a fire and use that. Winter is near, there won't be any torching for a while now. Have I been clear?'

'Yes, my lord.'

'Good. Let the Thane enter!'

Proventus Avenicci stepped back and crossed his hands in front of his lap, lowering his head. Irileth moved forward, standing by the side of the Jarl. Balgruuf shifted in the throne, sitting in a more formal position. It had been a long time since they had last seen the Thane, and his visit was a surprise. Whether good or bad, that was for the future to uncover.

The gates of Dragonsreach opened slowly, squeaking like unoiled hinges. The guards didn't hold their curiosity back and peaked out of the fortress before the two wings of the door finished moving. The warm light coming in was of a sunny afternoon. It was one of those typical days of early winter. Freezing air, hot Sun and without any clouds. You could search for hours and not find one.

Two figures stepped in the fortress. One was a bald man wearing the Whiterun guard uniform. Commander Caius. The other was also known, but a lot less familiar. The guards immediately assumed a more proper stance upon seeing him, stopping any dangling arms in their tracks and standing straight. 'Welcome, Thane,' they said, almost in unison, watching the grim figure greeting them with a nod. He walked up the steps.

The armor he wore wasn't exactly like the one he donned the last time he'd visited. The other one he had looked old and ancient, especially the metal plates and steel junctions. The one he wore now was new and shining, as if forged hours ago, which it was, but nobody knew that. The cloth of the hood and cowl also looked new, and a lot more brilliant. The previous one was dark crimson, opaque and daunting. This was more vivid. A ruby red, more intense but not one bit less intimidating. And, this was noticeable, he had no cloak on his back and no mask covering his face.

A quiver was fastened to his back, side by side with a long black bow. A masterpiece of a weapon. Just from the look of it, Irileth estimated that the draw weight had to be very high. A dagger was fastened to his belt, a blade they had already seen. Lastly, a long leather sheath hanged from his hip. They had never seen that before. It had to be a new weapon.

Irileth noticed that something about him had changed. It was his first visit in a long time, so it could have very well been. The more he approached, the surer she was about it. There was something different about him. She had sensed something strange as he entered the hall. An odd sensation, the unsettling feeling of being beside someone you admire and don't want to let down. She looked at him. He stood straight, his head up and shoulders back in a way that the chest would be exposed. The posture itself gave away his confidence. Irileth had little to no problems in deciphering those sign: the Dragonborn's charisma, reason and means unknown, had increased significantly.

'My Jarl,' the Dragonborn greeted Balgruuf, bowing his head imperceptivity. 'It's good to be back.'

'Welcome, Azrael,' politely answered the Jarl. 'We're more than happy to have you among our ranks again. The Commander told me you have a request, for my ears only.'

'I do indeed,' said the Assassin, with his neutral and glacial tone. 'I know the Dragonsreach courtyard was built to capture a Dragon, but I'm not an expert on the matter, sadly. Is that true?'

'That is an old tale,' intervened Proventus, 'but well known to those of us who serve in the keep. Long ago, there lived a mighty hero of the Nords. Olaf One-Eye. Olaf did battle with a fearsome dragon named Numinex. The struggle between Olaf and the dragon culminated in a mighty duel atop Mount Anthor, with Olaf the victor. Olaf returned in triumph to Whiterun. By his decree, the city's keep was rebuilt as a prison for Numinex. And so, from that time until this, our great keep has been called Dragonsreach.'

'Thanks for the history lesson…' muttered the she-Elf on the other side of the throne.

'Irileth!' snapped Balgruuf. 'Did you really need to interrupt?'

'Save your patience for me, my Jarl,' rejoined Azrael. 'Because I wanted to ask you to re-use that courtyard to capture a Dragon.'

Everybody, aside from the Assassin, stiffened suddenly. All those who had heard him speak now stared at him stuttering, wondering if they had heard right. Irileth looked at the Dragonborn himself for confirmation, hoping he'd do something to deny those words. Her hopes got shattered when the trace of an amused grin crinkled his lips.

The embarrassment only increased when the Jarl unexpectedly burst into a hysterical laughter.

'I must have misheard you,' he chortled. 'I thought you asked me to help you trap a Dragon in my palace.'

'You heard right.'

'You can't be serious. This is a prank, or someone deceived you. I'll have no part in all this.'

'I wouldn't be asking if it wasn't important,' said the Assassin, his voice emotionless but his gaze somewhat threatening.

'Of course,' replied the Jarl, recanting the haughty response. 'You already saved Whiterun from that Dragon. I owe you a great deal. But I don't understand. Why let a Dragon into the heart of my city when we've been working so hard to keep them out?'

'I need to get information from one.'

'There must be another way. The risk is too great.'

The Assassin bent his head slightly to the right. He didn't intend to immediately break the silence that had fallen heavy on the hall. He knew everybody was watching him, and he waited. And it as working. The tension and nervousness across the entire hallway was getting more and more palpable with every moment that passed. Irileth looked at the Dragonborn and she knew at once that he was about to drop the biggest argument of that whole conversation. Something that could have surpassed all that tension. A thing so great and so terrible none dared to envision it.

And at last, he spoke.

'Alduin has returned.'

Balgruuf nearly slipped off his throne.

'Alduin?' he gasped, in a whisper, as if saying that name was forbidden. 'The World Eater itself? But… How can we fight him? Doesn't his return mean the arrival of the end times?'

Everyone widened their eyes in shock when the Dragonborn casually shrugged. 'It's meant to,' he answered calmly. 'Doesn't necessarily have to be that way, though.'

'But the prophecies… They speak of the End of Days. The return of the World Eater is supposed to be the end. It heralds the end of this world!'

'Maybe so, but I plan to go down fighting. What about you?'

Whispers ran across the hall. None of them was understandable, but they were all saying one thing: the Dragonborn was calling for the Jarl's pride as a Nord and a ruler. The trap had snapped, and Balgruuf had no intention to back away in that moment. It would mean failing his legacy and letting down his people.

'No Nord could have said it better!' he declared. 'I'll stand beside you, Dragonborn. But first,' he continued, assuming a more controlled and skeptical tone, 'what's this nonsense about trapping a Dragon in my palace?'

'Only way for me to know how I can put an end to the World Eater.'

The Jarl of Whiterun bit his lip. 'I want to help you, Dragonborn,' he said as a premise, 'and I will. But I need your help first, again. Ulfric and General Tullius are both just waiting for me to make a wrong move. Do you think they will sit idle while a Dragon is slaughtering my men and burning my city? No. I can't risk weakening the city while we are under the threat of enemy attack. I'm sorry.'

'Yes, yes…' tiredly whispered the Assassin. 'You humans and your silly war. Listen, what if you didn't need to worry about any enemy attack?'

The Jarl stole a suspicious glance back at him, but followed along. 'Then I would be glad to help you with your mad Dragon-trapping scheme. But getting both sides to agree to a truce will be difficult at this point. The bitterness has gone too deep. Maybe…what of the Greybeards? They are respected by all Nords. High Hrothgar is neutral territory. If the Greybeards were willing to host a peace council, then maybe Ulfric and Tullius would have to listen.'

The Assassin breathed deeply, crossed his arms and glanced at the ceiling. He drummed his fingers on his bicep, humming distractedly. After a while he looked straight in the eyes of the Jarl and nodded slowly.

'That could very well be our only option,' he said tranquilly. 'I'll try and talk to them.'

'You'd be doing this city an immense favor, Dragonborn.'

'I know. It's how the world seems to be going, these days. Wish me luck.'


	11. Tame the Bear

It had been a long time indeed since members of the Thieves Guild and Dark Siblings had worked together. In fact, it hadn't happened since Sapphire had switched over to the former, back when the pay was better. The situation at hand was quite unique: The Listener of the Brotherhood was also Guild Master. There weren't clear records of something of that importance happening in recent history. It allowed said person to dispose of so much power and influence it was hardly imaginable.

But that was barely enough power to do what Azrael had in mind.

'Are you sure they'll refuse?' asked Agarur, leaning back against the truck of a fallen tree. 'I mean, there's no way of knowing.'

'But they will,' said Brynjolf. He sighed and looked at the map before continuing. 'The northerners have a nasty tendency to remember. Especially bad stuff.'

Laegiine looked at the man sideways. 'Do they?' she asked, and then chortled quietly. 'When I escaped home to join the Sanctuary, nobody seemed to notice I was gone.'

'The pathological status of your family is of little concern to us now,' commented the Assassin, circling around the trunk where the map was. 'I'm quite positive that they haven't forgotten me. I'd take that as a personal insult, otherwise. You don't really need to do anything else.'

'Lad, but do you realize that if they allow you to enter peacefully then our disturbances will be badly interpreted?'

'I do realize, Bryn,' Azrael assured him. 'And I guarantee that they recall. Do you know the quickest way to have someone remember about you?'

The redhead furrowed his eyebrows and narrowed his eyes. 'Missing out a couple of payments?'

Vex and the two Dark Siblings giggled briefly, and then turned serious. Azrael didn't laugh, he just grinned wickedly. 'Precisely,' he said, attracting the glances of the ones around him like a magnet. 'I have a bounty on my head in Windhelm. One I have yet to clear.'

'Not that handy, but certainly convenient now,' observed Agarur with a smile.

'So, to summarize.' The Assassin waved two fingers at the two Dark Siblings and invited them to gather around the map. Vex moved closer and stood beside Bryn. 'You'll enter from three different ways. Agarur and Laegiine can go in together, they'll split once inside. Bryn, you enter from the front gate. Vex, you go from the docks. All clear?'

The four nodded.

'Excellent. Now, the specifics. Laegiine.'

'Yes, Listener?'

'The two targets are inside the Temple of Talos. Everyone will be praying, most likely, and so they won't notice you if you move stealthily, as you should. If you can't kill them there, try and lure them away. You have no other instruction. Remember, payment has already been accepted so there's no failing this homicide. Have I been clear?'

'As daylight.'

'Good girl. Agarur!'

'Your orders?'

'Your contract requires a public kill. Try to follow the target and act when there are people watching, but make sure they can't intervene. You could also just throw him off from somewhere and make him land into the streets. The corpse must be immediately seeable after the kill, and it mustn't be mistaken for an accident or suicide. Cut his throat or stab him repeatedly. You choose. Bryn, Vex.'

'Yes, lad?'

'Before you do your jobs, try and stir up some trouble. Steal from people, pick doors open and leave them like that so someone else can enter. Don't get caught and try to keep moving. The guards will be busy handling the murders, the mass of thieves opening houses and pickpocketing citizens and the pretender Dragonborn that walks through the main gate by force. They'll have a hard time catching you. Now, if it's all clear, we can begin.'

Laegiire gave him a nod. 'Yes, Master. We're ready.'

'When you like, boss,' said Vex, cracking her neck.

* * *

The bridge that went across the river was long. From the stables, the city gate seemed very far. Farther than it truly was, in all honesty. The whole viaduct was patrolled by Stormcloaks in their blue armors. They all wore thick hoods in addition to their helmets and long capes, which covered the shoulders and hung over their entire back. Azrael kept a keen on their weaponry, which was heavy for the clear majority. Bastard swords, claymores, battleaxes and similar were a usual sight.

That was more than simple curiosity. He would, at one point, need to fight. Or at least he feared he would have. However, it is far easier to threaten someone when they have less reach than you do, and in that place it all inconveniently went the other way around. Chillrend was of a sufficient length, but nowhere near a longsword or a warhammer. It was something he would need to look out for, once inside. Or even outside.

He was quite confident about the plan they had put together. The two Dark Siblings had also seemed to have liked the two thieves, which was quite a satisfaction in the first place and by itself. The two organizations could have accomplished much by working together, and synchronized missions that put the skills of both to good use reached extremely positive results, both in the time required and efficiency. The Assassin didn't have any plans to link the two, but if the situation occurred he would have gladly encouraged collaboration.

The first result of the association of the two was being put to the test.

Azrael paced calmly across the bridge. Months of trekking had trained him to coordinate breathing and walking. As his resistance and breathing had gotten better, he also accustomed to make longer and less frequent steps. He covered an incredible length with the movement of one leg. And, when there was need for it, he would combine the lengthy strides with swiftness and nimbleness, making him able to outrun most adversaries.

Every skill at his disposal could have turn out to be useful in the upcoming struggle. The Assassin approached the shut gates. Two soldiers guarded the door, and there were three more standing atop of the wall. The Dragonborn had also noticed two more fighters following him. They were, intelligently, trying to surround him. There was nowhere to escape. The rear was defended by those two, in front of him was the gate and the sides were closed off by the walls. Even if he had reached the top of those, there wouldn't have been a single way out. Jumping below was out of the question: a thick layer of ice covered the river.

'Halt!' said the guard standing by the gate. 'What's your business in Windhelm?'

'Hey, I know this one!' hollered one from the walls above. 'It's the Dark Elf! There's a bounty on his head.'

'You're mistaking.' The Assassin moved one step closer to the gate. 'I'm the Dragonborn. I've come to deliver a message to Ulfric Stormcloak, on account of the Greybeards.'

The soldiers laughed. Azrael heaved a sigh and put both his hands on his own hips, waiting for them to finish with their mirth. Strange, but people reacted to something strange by laughing mockingly, as if to demoralize him. It worked with others, no denying that, but not with the Assassin. He knew why they did that. All the same to him. He waited.

'I'm sorry,' giggled one of the fighters, 'I heard you saying you're Dragonborn. I might have heard wrong.' There was a long two-handed sword fastened to his back, and his vigorous body left little doubt on whether he could swing that thing. He was taller than his comrades. 'Do you even know what a Dragonborn is, grey-skin?'

His other mate down by the gate stole a glance at him. 'Grey-skin?' he asked. 'You sure? Don't see a sliver of his mug.'

'He is,' the tall one replied. 'The accent is the one. Come on, or do I have to round off your ears?'

'Do I really have to answer?' asked the Assassin, with a tired outbreath. 'Let me through, or I'll not ask nicely next time.'

'Thinks himself tough, the grey-skin.' The tall Nord leaned against the wall. 'Thinks himself smart, too.'

'Rakrn!' a voice screamed from the walls. The soldiers turned towards it. A lightly armored man appeared between the merlons. 'Rakrn! A man was killed in the streets!'

'When?' asked the tall Nord. 'Where?'

'In the market place, just a moment ago! And… The doors in the Stone district have all been opened! The houses are being robbed and pillaged!'

Azrael picked the right arrow from the quiver. He felt it different from the others. He nocked it, and looked at the rope twined near the tip. The soldiers suddenly looked at him, half in shock and the other half without the slightest clue of what to think. The tall Nord shot him an angry glare. 'What game are you playing?'

Azrael narrowed his eyes. 'One that you just lost.'

He drew the bow rapidly and fired the arrow. The projectile stuck in the bricks of the wall. The rope came loose and fell down, dangling slowly. It was too far from the top of the walls for the soldier there to pull it out.

The Assassin fastened the bow to the laces on his back and unsheathed Chillrend. The two soldiers that stood behind him backed off at the sight of the blue blade coming out of the leather scabbard, but the tall Nord didn't allow himself to be scared. _Not just brave, also foolhardy,_ thought the Assassin, reaching for his bandolier, and grabbing a throwing dagger. Just in case.

The Nord charged him head on. 'Die, grey-skin!' He raised his blade above his head and lowered it right as it got near enough to theoretically hit the Assassin. The answer was quick and lethal. Azrael had thought him a little more tactical.

The steel sword of the Stormcloak was blocked by a horizontal parry of the Dragonborn. Azrael trapped the enemy's blade with the malachite crossguard and instantly straightened his wrist. The icy tip of the sword ripped open the throat of the tall Nord. Not a drop of blood fell from the wound, which had been cauterized by the magical frost gushing from the blade.

 _That was the warning…_ Azrael said to himself, watching the other soldiers around him and glaring balefully at them. He had been somewhat lucky that the tall Nord had charged in so blindly. He had been able to kill him quickly and make an example out of him. The others were a lot more reluctant to attack, and let him go closer to the rope without doing anything besides pointing their swords at him.

The Assassin grabbed the rope and climbed the wall. It was high, but he got up in no time. A brave fool tried to use a long blade to cut the rope, but the throwing dagger found his cheek before his longsword could but the line. The man didn't even have the strength to pull the dagger out of his flesh before falling into the river below. _See you in Oblivion,_ Azrael would have liked to scream, but he refrained. The other Stormcloaks on the wall gripped their drawn weapons tighter and probably prayed for a swift death.

The Assassin jumped on the parapet walk. The soldiers facing him were four, the original three plus the one that had joined them later, which looked utterly terrified. The others seemed a bit more disciplined. Azrael evaluated the situation, and it wasn't so desperate. Two of them wielded short weapons, specifically a mace and an axe, and only one had a long weapon.

Not that it really mattered.

'Yol… Toor Shul!'

Flames filled his throat and touched his lips as they gushed out of his mouth. The fire flood dissolved the snow and blew away the vapor. The ground turned red and the temperature around them rose suddenly. Azrael had barely the time to look at the dread-filled faces of the soldiers before the blazing inferno swathed and burned them. The stream of flames extinguished a few meters farther, leaving behind a trail of embers and ashes.

The forty or so people standing near the city entrance turned their frightened gazes up.

'The Voice!' someone yelled. Everybody started running, confusedly. Soldiers tried to get through the fleeing crowd, but got pushed back alongside the mob. Voices.

'What in the…'

'By the Gods!'

'It can't be!'

There was a set of stone stairs which led down from the wall walk to the streets. Azrael kept Chillrend in clear sight, point down. He kept his other hand close to his chest, and the faint flame sparkling in his palm blazed vibrantly. The sides of the hood fluttered slowly, hiding and revealing his face for short moments. In that new and shining armor, he looked like a god of destruction walking among mortals.

A few soldiers managed to get past the screaming crowd and surround him. They formed a semi-circle, since the wall already blocked Azrael from behind.

The Assassin swept his gaze around and casted cold glares at all of them. They were seven in total, five men and two women. The males all wielded two-handed weapons. The biggest of them, a huge mountain of meat taller even than Azrael, brandished a giant warhammer. _A single hit from that would crush anyone's chest,_ thought the Assassin, with a half grin. _Damn, I wish I had that strength to fight Dragons. Would render breaking their scales so much easier,_ he said to himself, while turning his gaze and wrapping up the analysis. Only one of the women had a long weapon. The other had one axe in each hand, and it sure looked like she knew how to use those.

All hints pointed at a hard fight ahead.

'Is it only us?' asked the axe wielding woman.

'Aye,' answered one of the other soldiers, a man with a closed helmet and a blond ponytail falling on his neck under the gorget. 'The others are busy locating the assassins.'

'Wha'?' rumbled the huge man, grabbing the warhammer with both hands. 'Scared o' him?'

The woman twirled her axes a single time, snarling. 'I'm not,' she said. 'Let's kill the grey-skin.' She remarked that last point by charging ahead.

 _Let's dance, bonnie._

The dance didn't last very long, though. She swung one of the axes forward, a blow that would have reached the chest of the Assassin. He evaded, flexing to the left, and used the counterweight to get straight up again while striking at the armpit. The blade easily cut through the thin leather protection, the mail and the flesh, and although it stopped when it reached the shirt of mail on the opposite side, the harm had already been done. The woman looked at him absently, her gaze hazy. As soon as he drew the blade out of her body, she reeled, toppling backwards.

A soldier with a longsword moved forward, taking on a defensive stance. He knew how to fight an experienced opponent. 'Filthy bastard… You'll pay for that.' At the sound of his words, the others moved a bit forward. The screams of crowd fleeing far from the spot where they stood could still be heard in the distance. Azrael looked at the six fighters getting closer, and realized he had to make the first move. They would have moved as close as they needed to ensure the victory, otherwise.

He gripped Chillrend, lowered his left hand to the height of his hip and the darted against the man.

The skilled poise of the man valued for nothing. His longsword effectively parried the swing of the icy blade, but the Blade of Woe found its way into the Nord's throat anyway. Azrael kicked the corpse far away to make some room for himself. Two more were charging in his direction: the woman and, closer, a warrior with a battleaxe. He nimbly dodged the hit and the man swung past him, while the Assassin grabbed with the wrist of the woman with his own hand and jerked it. She made the mistake of not letting go of her weapon, and she was drawn down to the ground with her sword. It was child's play for him to finish her off with a simple plunge.

The man with the battleaxe stabilized and struck again. He was clearly used to fight at a longer range than the one Azrael was forcing him to engage at. He constantly exposed his hands. Azrael parried the hit, striking the shaft, and the allowed the sword to slide all the way down to the grip. Chillrend hacked off the right hand of the man, who dropped the blade and looked in shock and his frozen stump. He looked long enough for Azrael to stick the frosty sword up his chin.

The Assassin barely had the time to pull the sword out before two oversized hands grabbed him from behind. He heard a defeating shriek just behind him. It was the big man who had clutched him. His feet lost contact with the ground, and the pain began to be noticeable. The brute was going to smash his pelvis. Azrael knew that he only had one choice. His blood boiled for a short moment.

The huge man screamed loudly and let go of him. Azrael didn't stick the landing and decided to roll forward. His whole body was on fire and a flaming aura shimmered around him. Blazes came out the joints of the armor and his skin looked transparent because of the flames emerging from it.

'You' cinder curse won't save ya, grey-skin!' he growled, looking at his own, burnt hands. Azrael bolted forward and traced a wide sweep with both hands, rending the man's plate and belly.

'That's why I bring swords along,' he said glacially, stepping back.

No one left to attack him. Chillrend hissed sinisterly, as if craving for more flesh to tear. There should have been two more soldiers to defeat, but Azrael had noticed that they had ceased to attack him at some point or another during the fight. He turned around, and saw them lying convulsively on the stone bricks of the road. They were dead. Grey fletching emerged from their backs.

 _Nazir did teach you the bow well, didn't he, Laegiine?_

* * *

Going through the whole city took a long time. It wasn't a long way, Windhelm was quite short North to South, but there had been things to watch out for on the way.

Only a few soldiers had come to face him. Those he hadn't killed. No one had attacked him after the slaughter at the bottom of the walls, near the entrance. Furthermore, they were not a lot. Only eleven men had followed him. The others were busy guarding the rest of the city and calming everyone down.

The reciprocal help of the Dark Siblings, the Thieves Guild and himself had allowed him to make it through. Comments among the guards made it clear that the criminals had escaped the city. They counted three people, and rightly so: Brynjolf and Vex hadn't parted for the entire mission, so it would have looked like one man alone.

Everything seemed to have gone correctly. The two contracts in the city had been fulfilled to the letter, and Agarur and Laegiine surely were on their way back to Dawnstar by then. The heist in the house of the Cruel-Sea, which would have been impossible to pull off otherwise, had been completed. Lastly, the Assassin had arrived unharmed to the Palace of Kings. The most difficult part was still to be done, but having traversed the city without any major problems was a decent enough progress.

He approached the gate of the Palace. Slowly turning around, he looked at the mob following him. It was a mix of different kinds of people. The eleven soldiers had mysteriously become fourteen, but there was another kind of multitude gathered there. Some were common men and women, free citizens of the city. They never looked at him in the eyes, but kept stealing deferential glances at him. Most of them were part of the crowd that had seen him use the Thu'um near the gates of the city. A whisper ran from one mouth to the other. 'Dragonborn.'

Azrael turned towards them and sheathed Chillrend.

'Men of the North,' he said aloud. His deep voice echoed in the confined space of the lane leading to the Palace. 'I am Azrael, the Assassin. And yes, I am a Dunmer. I have no wish to hide it and no wish to deny it. However, I am Dragonborn and I am here to speak with your Jarl. I have no ill intent. I merely wish to speak to him, and offer him a temporary ceasing of the war.'

'What of those men you have slain?' a soldier snapped, stomping the ground.

'They attacked him first!' cried a man from the crowd.

'You weren't there,' spit the fighter. 'What do you know of what happened?'

'What does it matter?' asked a male voice from the second row of people. The Assassin remembered that voice. It was the one of Brunwulf Free-Winter. The defender of the Dark Elves. 'He needs to speak with the Jarl, he had no motive to kill those soldiers. And he truly is Dragonborn, believe me. You saw him unleashing the Thu'um, on the walls. If there's one thing that's true about the Dark Elves, it's that they keep to their traditions. None of them would spend years learning the Thu'um. Besides, he would have had only a few months.'

'You know him, Brunwulf?' someone asked. It wasn't an accusation, just curiosity.

'Aye,' said the Nord. 'I met him some months back. I don't know much about him, but he's a smart fella. You see it in his eyes. I'd say to let him enter.'

Yet another voice, muffled by the amount of people in between, shouted something indistinct. After a moment, the citizens of Windhelm looked simultaneously at the Assassin and roared as one. 'All hail the Dragonborn!' The soldiers looked around and exchanged glances, sensing defeat. Azrael untied a gold pouch he had fastened to his belt and tossed it to the nearest of them.

'My bounty,' he said with a bleak smirk. His voice almost got surpassed buy another shout.

'All hail the Dragonborn!'

Two soldiers walked over to him, with their weapons still drawn. 'We can forget those incidents at the entrance, but you'll not go in the Palace unguarded.'

'Would you mind accompanying me, then?'

'Inside, Dark Elf. Quick, before our kinsmen drown us.'

The Assassin bowed his head in appreciation and opened one of the wings of the gate, followed by the two fighters, who closed the gate shut behind them.

Inside there was a whole lot different atmosphere. For once, it was hot and dry. Secondly, it was utterly silent. The voices still reached his ears, and couldn't tell if it was just his head of the sound coming in through the metal doors. The response to his short speech had been unexpectedly positive, and the aid of Brunwulf even more so. Of all the things he could have hoped for, none contemplated the grizzled veteran making an appearance and turning the tides in such a way.

Ulfric Stormcloak sat on his throne at the other end of the hall. Azrael paced across it calmly, but guessed that any person with a mediocre anxiety could have died of a heart attack before reaching the end of the hallway. Even he felt a bit of tension building up the closer he got to the throne.

The hall's walls were grey. Granite, most likely. The same stone that was used with all the construction in Skyrim, that happened to be the stone all the mountains were made of. Blue banners with the bear of Eastmarch hung down. A blue carpet was laid just in front of the Jarl's seat; the Assassin noticed it was dirty. Mud. Dry mud. The decorations had remained, but they didn't care to keep them clean and perfect.

The two soldiers followed him closely, casting nervous glances at their Jarl. They had put their weapons on their backs, but never strayed too far from him. The two had also been a fun surprise. They couldn't have possibly defeated him, or maybe they could have. Who knows? Maybe a nod from Ulfric and a dagger might have been rammed into Azrael's neck. He would have taken precautions, when the time came.

The table beside them was ready for a meal. The dishes were clean and the bottles of mead were still closed. Nothing too expensive or pretentious on that table. It was quite simple, really. Small plates awaiting the food and iron goblets appositely made for mead. After having seen the Blue Palace, that seemed a lot more sober.

Azrael kept looking at the table until they arrived in front of the throne itself, and he felt the gaze of Ulfric Stormcloak on his hooded face.

'My Jarl,' said the of the soldiers, with respect, 'this is the one.'

'So,' said Ulfric, looking down at him from his seat. He was alone. Some people said that his right hand, some Galmar Stone-Fist, never left him. However, he wasn't there. 'You are the person who has entered my city and murdered my friends and brothers.'

Azrael looked at him. He was quite a bit different from when he had seen him on the cart. His face was less gloomy, and his eyes sparkled. Azrael knew that light. Hope. An ideal. He had seen that many times in his life.

'That I am,' Azrael answered, glacially.

'And who are you, then?'

'I believe we've already met.'

'Did we?' he said, looking intently at the sliver of skin that was visible under the shadow of the hood. His eyes brightened up suddenly a moment after. 'Oh, yes. You were at Helgen. That Elf that was captured along the way.'

'In the flesh.'

'And you claim to be Dragonborn?'

'The Greybeards seem to think so.' The Assassin jeered at the Jarl, who wasn't that irritated of his irreverence and lack of manners like a standard highborn. 'And talking of the Greybeards,' he continued, 'I have a message for you on their account.'

'Do you?' The Jarl seemed surprised and satisfied. 'It's about time they turned their gaze from the heavens, back to our bleeding homeland. What do they want?'

'To negotiate a peace. Until the Dragons are defeated.'

'Why have you come here?' The Jarl looked intently at him, trying to penetrate the red eyes of the Dark Elf. Azrael merely bent his head a little, faking surprise.

'I'm here on diplomatic duty, nothing more. No idle chatter, no games. If you please,' he said, sneering faintly, 'could you give me an answer?'

'I have the greatest respect for the Greybeards, of course,' replied Ulfric. 'And the Dragon attacks are a growing plague, but… The political situation is still delicate. Not all the Jarl are fully committed to support me as High King. I can't afford to appear weak. I can't agree to this unless Tullius himself will be there.'

'To Oblivion with politics…' hissed the Assassin. 'Alduin has returned, and you worry about appearing weak?'

'Alduin?' inquired the Jarl, confused. 'The World Eater of song and legend? If that's true… Well, it changes the situation completely, doesn't it?'

'I suppose so.'

One of the soldiers bashed him with the elbow. 'Some respect, grey-skin!' Azrael reacted quickly enough and grabbed him arm, but not before the other one gripped his shoulders. The Assassin looked at Ulfric, who nodded coolly and waved a hand.

'Let him go.'

Azrael cracked his neck before raising his gaze back towards the Jarl. 'So… Alduin?'

'I can't believe it,' he admitted. 'But if it's really true… Even Tullius may be forced to talk sense in the face of such a threat.'

'So you'll come?'

'Yes,' proudly answered the Jarl. 'I'll give Tullius one more chance to quit Skyrim with his tail between his legs.'

'Be seeing you soon, then.'


	12. Discipline the Legion

Winter was getting closer and closer. The winds were changing, the breezes shifting directions. Azrael, however, felt that on his skin. Any Nord he came across just shrugged nonchalantly when he said something about the cold, but he felt it. He felt the temperature lowering with each day passing by and saw more and more snow piling on top itself. For the first time since his arrival, he had seen the plains around Whiterun covered by a soft blanket of snow. 'It'll melt by the evening,' Ysolda had commented, not fully understanding that Azrael wasn't worried. He was just surprised.

Shadowmere didn't give any sign of distress. She galloped at her usual speed, headstrongly enduring any change in the climate. Lucky you, lass, Azrael had thought, half-way on the road to Solitude. He had slapped her on the side and they kept sprinting towards their destination. The silver lining in all that was the lower amount of outlaws and cutthroats that patrolled the roads. With that cold, they usually kept one man outside as a guard, and most times they didn't bother with a single horseman dashing past their post. They really didn't.

Azrael had wondered how those people survived the winter. 'You're blind, traveler,' a merchant had answered him, upon him asking. 'You should notice the granaries outside and inside the cities. We store the harvests there, and thus we survive the cold.' That explanation had also cleared quite a bit about the attack on Stonehill. Azrael has seen only one building going down, and yet everybody was crying and cursing as if their life had depended on it. Turns out it had. That must have been the granary, burned down by the Stormcloaks.

Upon arriving near the walls of Solitude, Azrael remembered to pay a closer look. However, the city's barn didn't strike him as something which can hold the necessary amount of nourishment to feed the entire population of the capital for months. He was right about to ask, when a cart coming from the docks reminded him. _Fish, of course, you idiot. The sea doesn't freeze,_ he thought with a grin. The wagon was full of clams and fishes, and it was enough to feed a fair amount of people for a fair amount of time.

Azrael never liked Solitude. He never liked it but also never hated it. He just didn't understand it. His memories of Blacklight were completely different. Dunmer generally can't stand crowded places, and they moved harmonically in the city. They fought their distaste with a strange sense of art and order. Everyone faced everyday matters with calm and seriousness. In Solitude, those things were cast aside for disorder, chaos and frenzy. People never stopped running around, talking, screaming, yelling, complaining and getting angry about meaningless things.

When he entered Caste Dour, the atmosphere around him changed suddenly. All the soldier there had gloomy faces and tired expressions. It looked like they breathed a different air then the ones just outside those gates. He expected it, the rumors he had head at the inn were enough to make the assumption. The war wasn't going that good for them. Azrael had then understood Ulfric's confidence a little more. He was presumably negotiating from a very slight position of strength. The legionnaires didn't look too happy with their condition. Some were practicing with the bow, a dozen with the sword and some were just sitting around the bonfire placed in the middle of the courtyard.

Azrael reached the guards standing by the entrance, who indignantly gazed at him.

'What's your business here?' one asked.

Azrael noticed he was a Nord. That was good. He could streamline the message a bit. 'The Greybeards have sent me. The General only can hear them.'

'Greybeards?' asked the other, also a Nord. 'Truly? I thought mundane matters such as war and politics didn't concern them,' he replied sardonically. First Ulfric, then him. There was a bit of resentment towards those eremites. 'And what might they want from the General?'

'Only for the General.'

The soldiers crossed eyes. The eyebrow of the first cocked, but the second just grimaced with annoyance. He turned and nodded at the Assassin. 'You can go in, Elf. General's place's straight forward, can't miss it. Don't do anything stupid.'

Azrael opened the door without saying anything more. He closed it behind him, and then advanced in the passageway that led onward. He could just see a table with a huge map laid on it. Several soldiers were guarding the corridor. The dark bricks that made up the castle darkened the light of the torches and candles, submerging those soldiers in a dim aura. They kept their heads down and rose them only to steal suspicious glances at the Dragonborn passing by.

'Halt,' said the one guarding the last door before the room with the map. 'State your affairs.'

'A proposal for your commander,' answered the Assassin.

'You may enter.'

Azrael stepped into the room, and was greeted by a volley of distrustful stares. A warm light came from the lamp on the ceiling, and the shadow it casted were deep and dark. The Assassin calmly seized everyone up with a cold glare, seeing who reacted and who didn't.

General Tullius, a short man with thin grey hair, stood at the opposite end of the table. The shining armor bore the imperial heraldry. It was awfully clean, so much so that Azrael wondered whether it had ever seen any real battle. His own armor, albeit having been reforged nearly three weeks before, already bore the opaqueness of the cold and the blood stains of the enemies as its heraldry. Azrael didn't see anything wrong with clean armors, but he was personally disappointed.

Beside the General stood a woman. A brown-haired and blue-eyed woman with the pale complexion of a northerner. She was tall, and wore the heavy plate of the Legion; she was clearly at ease in it. Azrael had no idea who she was, but she did inspire a basic fighter trust in him.

There were two soldiers at the sides of the chamber. They both held spears in their right hand with the bottom of the shafts resting on the ground. Nothing too special about them. Finally, very close to him, stood a familiar face. Hadvar, the legionnaire that had helped him escape Helgen. _Aedra and Daedra, it's been a long time,_ Azrael thought while holding back a sneer.

'Greetings, stranger,' said General Tullius, trying his best to be polite. 'What brings you to Castle Dour?'

'I have a message for you, General,' the Assassin said, advancing towards the table.

'And who are you?' asked the woman.

'Wait, General!' Hadvar breathed, looking at the shadowed face of the Dragonborn. 'He is… You are…'

'Yes, Hadvar,' Azrael replied, grinning. 'I see your memory works well. Not everyone would recognize me.'

'What's this about?' asked the woman, rather snappily.

'General, he's the Dark Elf we almost executed ay Helgen,' the young man explained. Tullius looked again at the Dragonbon, and his eyes brightened up. 'He saved my life,' Hadvar continued. 'We should at least hear what he has to say.'

'Yes, yes,' said the General, as memories slowly began to return. 'I remember you. You were saved by the Dragon. I'm sorry for what happened that day. I'm sure you being imprisoned was a terrible misunderstanding. So, what do you wish to ask me?'

'I have a message. On account of the Greybeards.'

The face of everyone in the room went from curious to doubtful in very little time. The two soldiers in particular shifted their heads, which they hadn't moved by a millimeter in the last minute or so, and looked at him astonished. Tullius, not having all the legends and myths behind his knowledge of those man, retained a more neutral behavior.

'The Greybeards?' he said. 'What do those old hermits want with me?'

'They're hosting a peace council at High Hrothgar.'

'Why?' asked the General. His tone suddenly became mocking and skeptical. The word "peace" seemed to have conveyed very negative thoughts. 'There's nothing to discuss as long as that traitor Ulfric is in arms against his rightful Emperor.'

 _Well… There's no Emperor right now, as far as I know,_ Azrael thought. He restrained from telling it to him. That phrase of the man wasn't a real verdict, just a fancy way of saying he wouldn't have stopped fighting.

'We need a truce,' insisted the Assassin, 'until the Dragon menace has been dealt with.'

'The Dragon menace is of no concern to us.'

That was way too straight and to be an honest response, beside the fact that it was impossible. Azrael's eyes narrowed. A sneer touched the corners of his lips as he jeered at the Imperial.

'Is it?' he asked dryly. 'Odd. Very odd, even. I remember talking to a merchant, a couple days past. He told me a whole platoon has been found near Robber's Gorge. Incinerated, burned alive by a Dragon. The beast was nowhere to be found. The guards in Whiterun have also warned me about the one that loves to circle around Eldersblood Peak, saying it had killed an imperial patrol.'

The Assassin paused, curling his lips and looking in the eyes of the General. At every new mention, his face had darkened. He wasn't about to change his mind, that was plain to see, but he was conceding ground. All he needed was a little pressure from the others.

The Dragonborn gazed coldly at them. He looked uncaring and uninterested in those things he described, which only increased the sense of conviction and duty in both the woman and Hadvar's gaze. Azrael continued, concluding his argument.

'Those are just a couple of examples,' he said. 'I have four more.'

'General, what he says it's true. Those things have happened. I think we should at least hear what he has to say,' Hadvar said.

'We already heard him out,' stubbornly replied the leader of the Legion. 'Still, I don't see any reason why we should agree.'

'He's talking sense, General,' said the woman. Azrael liked the unyielding tone in her voice. 'We can't deny their existence and the damage they are causing to us.'

'Well, they are getting to be a problem…' the man finally admitted. Azrael suppressed his sly smile. The slightest sign of mock and that pigheaded little man could have changed his mind. For the time being he played along. 'However, you'll all concur that I wasn't sent to Skyrim to fight Dragons. My job is to quell this rebellion.' He pointed at the position of Windhelm on the map. 'I intend to do just that. Dragons or no Dragons.'

Azrael pinched his eyebrows. 'The Empire can't afford to snub the Greybeards.'

'He's right, General.' Hadvar seemed to agree with nearly everything the Dragonborn said. Azrael wasn't so sure the Dovahkiin thing hadn't reached Solitude. Maybe it had, and they were just silently playing his game without him knowing.

General Tullius, however, wasn't a Nord and couldn't care less about it. 'Do you understand that this is not something I can't afford to do? Most of the Legion is tied down on the border with the Aldmeri Dominion. The Emperor can't afford to risk weakening Cyrodiil's defenses. From the Imperial City, our war here is just a sideshow. An interlude before the main event against the Thalmor resumes.' The General stopped for a moment. A soldier had entered the building, with probably something important to say. The General gestured him to wait, and continued. 'We can't do it. The rebels need to be smashed quickly and without any truces in between. That will be it.'

'General,' intervened the woman, 'ignoring the Dragon threat is out of the question. We…'

'Silence, Rikke,' ordered the man. 'I'll not hear a word from you. You Nords and your bloody sense of honor… Do you know how making a truce works? It's diplomacy, and diplomacy is best done from a position of strength. We're not in one right now. The Stormcloaks are driving us back, and we still have no idea which side Whiterun's on. No more,' he settled, 'matter's over. What did you need, Captain?' he asked at the soldier that had entered.

'Jarl Elisif the Fair wishes to speak with you, sir.'

An awkward silence permeated the room. Azrael bit his lip and shook his head imperceptivity in disbelief. That woman learned quickly enough for his tastes, and that managed to surprise him to the point of planting a sting of envy and irritation in his throat. Things he rarely, if ever, felt. The Legionnaires were all confused or disoriented by the announcement. Hadvar gulped nosily and looked at his two superiors for help. General Tullius shrugged, but he was thrown off too.

'She may enter,' he answered. He then turned to the Assassin. 'I think the matters of the Jarl don't concern you, Elf. Leave us, and consider yourself lucky I didn't put you in chains again.'

The door opened. Azrael rose his eyebrows and leered balefully at the short man. His eyes blazed red. 'I'll get my way. I always do. Farewell, for the time being.'

'You're not going anywhere, Az,' came the giggle from behind. The voice of Elisif. 'This involves you more than anyone in this place.'

Out of the six people standing in the room, five froze on the spot. The one remaining, a certain Dunmer, leaned against the wall, shaking with laughter.

Elisif the Fair strode in room, walking swiftly. She was alone. Her housecarl probably awaited her at the exit but hadn't follow her inside. She wore a long dress of the exact same blue of her eyes. She was simply stunning. Her hair were carefully combed; a small braid tilted gently on the rest of her hair. A long, silky chestnut wave that dangled softly down her back.

She approached Azrael way too much for it to be coincidence. He stood still, wanting to see how far she was going to expose herself. Mildly, and in no way excessively. She simply rose on the tip of her toes, since he was at least a head taller than her, and branded a warm kiss on his bearded cheek. Her lips touched the rough skin of the scar, but she didn't care. She was utterly satisfied with what she had done and how she had done it. The Assassin saw it in her gaze, and looked down at her with a wry but tender look. She planted her feet firmly beside him, under the cover of his shadow.

'My Jarl, what…' Tullius tried to say, but his voice quavered and his lips trembled.

'General, you are going to hear me out,' she said, abandoning her smiling self for a moment and assuming her usual somber tone, although it wasn't exactly the same. It was more confident, more assertive and way more severe. 'You'd have to be out of your mind to refuse an offer from the Greybeards. Do you even know what would happen if you did? I wager half of your men would turn to the Stormcloaks. There's no excuse for not answering their calling.'

'With all due respect, my Jarl…'

'Silence,' she imperatively said, cutting him off. 'This treaty has to be signed. It will only bring the Legion advantages, and if not, at least to the people it defends.'

'Your sympathy for the rebels doesn't interest me, Elisif,' Tullius retorted. 'You're not supposed to take decisions on the matters the Legion.'

Elisif put both her hands on her hips and hissed like an angry cat. 'For once, I don't sympathize with the rebels. Their leader murdered my husband, do you remember that? Second, I'm not meddling with the affairs of the Legion, I'm just giving you some friendly advice. You don't know these lands, and in spite of that you never peak your nose out this castle. You don't know what happens outside, and outside something fairly important is happening.'

'Let's hear some good old Nord wisdom. What did the prophecy foretell this time?'

'No prophecy. The wind told us that: Winter. Winter is near.'

Tullius was caught off guard. 'Winter?' he asked, confused. 'And what should the season passing mean to me?'

'That's exactly what I mean,' she said, opening her arms as if saying "plain to see", or something else that described obvious things. 'You know nothing of these lands. Let me tell you about winter in Skyrim. Temperature drops, so low that even one of us would die if exposed to the cold. Winds blow from the North, carrying the frigid gales of the Sea of Ghosts with them. Snow falls, and at times it reaches twice a tall man's height. The roads become nearly impossible to travel, and economical connection between the cities ceases almost completely.'

'This is all very poetic,' replied the General, still not convinced, 'but how should this help me?'

'Legionaries will never be able to move. Almost all communications will be blocked, since horses usually don't endure an entire day of exposure to the cold of those months. Your soldiers, trained methodically by your best quartermasters, will never be able to face the winter. Ulfric, on the other hand, has different kind of men by his side. Those fighters have been raised here in Skyrim. Even in the most freezing of winters, they'll be able to move around and do as they please. So I repeat, and I hope it's clearer this time. During the cold season, the balance of the war will only worsen. There is no way to avoid this, General.'

'Your arguments seem reasonable, Elisif,' he conceded. 'However, I still see no way out of this.'

'We sign that truce and await for the spring to come,' plainly explained the woman named Rikke. 'The Jarl's right. This is our best option.'

'There is something more that could be done.'

All eyes turned at Azrael. The Assassin looked at ease even with the attention of the whole audience directed at him. He took a deep breath and then looked at Elisif sideways. 'Correct me if I say something wrong,' he said.

'Be sure of it,' she answered.

'There is something more the Legion could do,' Azrael began. 'The rebels are strong and brave, and they almost even you out in number. But there's one thing they don't have, and that is organization, bureaucracy, a thriving economy. They live by the day, and are happy with it.'

'Where are you going with this economy lecture?'

'While the truce is on, you could focus on improving the income and bolstering the market. Then, when spring comes, you'll have the resources needed to eradicate this rebellion once and for all. Does that sound reasonable, or is it just me?'

'You make a good point,' said Elisif. 'There are a few things we could do in Solitude. If the war stops soon, we'll be able to begin the activities before the snow piles on us. We could also try and interrupt the trade routes that lead the cities supporting the rebellion.'

'The group stationed in the Pale can handle that, can't it Legate?' asked Hadvar to Rikke.

'It can,' she answered. 'I'll give the orders, and sent messengers…'

'Wait a minute!' yelled the General. 'Stop making plans and taking decisions! I am in charge!'

A quizzical smile played out on Elisif's lips, and she slowly walked towards the General. He looked at her with a confused look, and withdrew a bit when she placed her hand on the map, very close to his. She widened her smile, which went from amused to downright disarming.

'You just let Nords handle their own business, will you?'

'I… I…'

Elisif tenderly caressed the rough cheek of the man. 'Good boy.'

Azrael was the first to laugh. He sniggered heartily. The scene was so amusingly pathetic that everyone else in the room, soldiers included, started laughing under their breath. They, in spite of themselves, kept smiling until Elisif slowly backed away and returned by Azrael's side, resting her head on his arm without any kind of scruples about etiquette. That had been broken as soon as those men started laughing of their commander. Tullius blushed vividly. Never in his life he had been humbled in such a way, and never by a twenty-two years old woman.

'So, kinsmen and kinswomen,' Elisif said, with a newfound and charming personal allure that Azrael had never seen in her before. 'Let's do something good about our land. First things, sign this truce, and second thing, win this war. General, Rikke, you'll come to the peace council with me. We'll make those rebels bow. For Skyrim.'

'For Skyrim!'

* * *

Azrael struggled to recognize her. The woman with that grin on her lips, that straight posture and welcoming expression wasn't the shy, serious woman he knew as Elisif. She was another person entirely. Another small detail that he had noticed was about the dress she wore. Normally, her clothing was kind of loose. It floated around her like a mage robe or a tunic. The garb she donned, however, was quite close-fitting. It traced and revealed her slim figure and harmonious curves.

It felt as if she was ashamed to show her body before. Now she didn't. Not in any vulgar way, absolutely not, but she had lost that slight quantity of discretion that used to distinguish her from most other women. Azrael was no expert, but he remembered a short discussion he had led with the owner of the Radiant Raiment, there in Solitude. 'Any clothes you wear should be tailor-fitted with precision,' the Altmer had told him.

'To what end?' he had asked.

'Why, highlight the vigorous shapes of your body!' she had exclaimed, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

As he had done back then in the shop, Azrael instinctively looked at his biceps and forearms. They were big, really big. The formers because of the bow and the latters because of the wristwork he did with his blades. He never gave it too much importance, all he asked of his muscles to that they'd save him when the need arose. But, since he needed those anyway, it didn't hurt to look muscular. Or, at least, that was the idea that had stuck in his head after that brief conversation.

Never hide the shape of your body. That was the message. He presumed it went the same for females.

'Thank you for convincing that old guy to stop the war,' Elisif said.

'You thank me?' he asked, grinning bleakly. 'I was under the impression you saved my sorry hide.'

'Hadn't it been for you, we wouldn't have ended up anywhere. I would have never managed to go to Tullius and explain those things to him. It would look out of place, and more importantly would mean meddling with his beloved Legion affairs. But like we did a moment ago? Not a problem. We outplayed him. We disciplined him, and the Legion, for good.'

'And they won't be underestimating you for a long while, now. Really showed your claws today.'

'I wanted to. I had the guards at the gate inform me if you walked in the city. As soon as they reported back, I ran to Castle Dour.'

'Did Falk give you any trouble?'

She looked at him with a cheerful look. 'No,' she said serenely. 'The man has grown accustomed to treating me different since… Well…' She looked at him knowingly. 'Since we last saw each other.'

'I remember,' he grinned. 'Don't need to remind me of that. I'm quite surprised, honestly.'

'That's quite a feat.'

'It is. It really is.'

They were silent for a time. The few people that crossed their paths looked astonished at them. Azrael laughed at their naivety and their solid bonds to habit, while Elisif was loving every moment of it. She had dreamt of being different all her life, but being different usually comes with its downsides. Now, it didn't seem to come with any. She walked at the side of someone she treasured and that didn't bring any shame to her. An assassin? Who cares, people aplenty murder for a living. Maybe not the typical and beautiful Nord? She didn't care. Azrael was extremely attractive, although in a dark, fiendish way.

'Are you riding to High Hrothgar?' she asked.

'Of course I am. I want to get there before everything starts heating up.'

'May I come with you?'

'Can you endure two, maybe three days of riding?'

'With you at my side.'

Azrael winked at her.

'We leave at dawn.'


	13. Council in the Mountains

Azrael gazed at Paarthurnax with a hopeful look on his face. The Dragon slowly shook its head.

'Nid, Dovahkiin. It is not correct.'

'I'll try again.'

'Pah Rot Fen Oblaan.'

'All worlds… Damn it… All worlds must end. Right?'

'Vahzah. Correct.'

'Go on.'

'Bo Nah Gut.'

Azrael cocked an eyebrow. 'What? Fly, Fury… Far? Meaning distant. What's that supposed to mean?'

'Kod Hin Hahdrim. Use your wit, Dragonborn. Many phrases in the Dovahzul are made up of three Rot. Three words. Dreh Hi Dahmaan? Can you recall any?'

'Drem Yol Lok. Literally means peace, fire and sky. Semantically stands for a formal way of greeting. Aaz Hah So; mercy, mind, sorrow. It's used to express sympathy of compassion.'

'Thu'um Ful Het. Apply that knowledge to what you do not comprehend. Bo Nah Gut. Fly, fury, far. Nust Drun Kun? Do you understand?'

Azrael focused. He looked at the sky. Looking at the sky always helped. _Lok, Thu'um,_ he repeated to himself. Sky above, Voice within. The winds were blowing, uncaring of his troubles and of the ones of others. Paarthurnax looked at him, resting on the ground with its wings folded. The bone-white scales shone brightly in the daylight. The marks of Alduin's teeth could still be seen on his neck. Azrael had thought of apologizing, but quickly realized how stupid it would have been. The Dragon was surely ready to endure such a clash, and it had been its own initiative to throw itself on Alduin in the first place. Nothing he needed to be sorry for.

The Dragon looked at him. A cool, never-ending patience sparkled in its eyes. For a being that has all eternity ahead, it could be considered normal. Azrael truly appreciated that. Paarthurnax underwent hours of teaching, at times without the student doing any actual progress. The more he learned thought, the better he became. His Dragon side had slowly started to wake up, and the links and connection between words and concepts started to come as natural as speaking the common tongue, or even breathing for that matter. To a Dovah, breathing and talking are much and the same.

'Fly, fury, far…' he repeated. The ideas formed and took shape. 'Is that a kind of… Banishment? As if saying "begone" or something like that?'

'Geh, Dovahkiin. You learn quickly.'

* * *

Elisif felt a cold hand touching her shoulder. She batted her eyes, then smirked and then turned around. Azrael slowly withdrew his chilling fingers. He sat on the side of the bed, looking at her with a faint, sad smile.

'What is it?' she asked.

'Fun's over. The others have arrived.'

'About time,' she said, dragging herself sitting. 'Any surprises?'

'Yes, a big one. The General has a special guest with him.'

'Does he?'

'Indeed. Ambassador Elenwen.'

Elisif grimaced. A droll grin played out on her lips. 'In for some fun, aren't we?'

'I guess we are,' replied the Assassin, coldly. He stared out of a window.

Elisif looked at him for a moment. 'Are you well, sweetheart?'

'A bit sad, is all. I was enjoying our time here, alone.'

Elisif beamed radiantly. Azrael wasn't the sentimental type, and their brief relationship hadn't been an exception in any way. His compliments were not of the romantic sort; they were impartial and sharp. He was very rare to praise, but when he did he brought up things a person might not have realized or seen about him or herself. Rational, lucid and mind-blowing. The few times he wasn't mocking something or someone, it was to deliver something of that kind. Always in his cold, emotionless tone.

Something of that such had just transpired. With incredibly simplicity and straightforwardness, he had managed to say something enormous. Translated into common tongue, his phrase sounded something like 'I've had a marvelous time here with you and I'm dismayed because it's about to end,' but that didn't sound one bit like him. Elisif realized she was slowly moving something in the stone heart of the Dunmer. Her human warmth was slowly planting roots in him.

They both knew that, once she had pervaded him with said warmth and he had permeated her with his coolness, their romance would come at an end. But they didn't care. The here and now. That only mattered to them.

The journey to High Hrothgar had been pleasing. Three days, as Azrael had planned. First stop in Falkreath, second in Ivarstead and arrival to the fortress by dusk of the third day. Elisif had been scared of Shadowmere at first, but she quickly coped with it. The beast showed a strange gentleness towards her, which eased the interaction. Nothing major had happened. She always sat near the neck of the horse and Azrael just behind her. They had calmly talked for the majority of the ride.

The hardest part had been getting away from Solitude. The thanes had refused to let her go away with an almost stranger, and her housecarl even went so far as to warn Azrael of keeping his distance. The two of them had bullied the court for good, just like they had done with General Tullius. Azrael, upon hearing the accusation, had burst into a grim and hearty laugh, and proceeded to demolish the poor man with a series of witty jests and pranks, making the soldier trip on his own words. Elisif had similarly humbled her thanes by replying bluntly and teasingly: 'You don't have any problems managing the city in my stead while I'm here,' she had said, jeering at them. 'I expect you to do that even while I'm away. It shouldn't take too many minutes of learning.'

The rest had gone smoothly. In spite of being lonely hermits, which are usually known for their moralistic tendencies, the Greybeards hadn't shown any distress at the arrival of Jarl Elisif, who they had reverently greeted. Arngeir had later asked the Assassin the reason of her presence, and the Dragonborn had briefly explained. None of the old men had inquired further.

Azrael had fleetingly considered Elisif might not like the meek welcome the Masters of the Voice could provide, but had quickly discarded the thought. It was plain to see that she was delighted by the change from the court and that she was taking it as a personal challenge.

The days flew by too quick. Azrael woke up early in the morning and walked to the top of the Throat of the World, where Paarthurnax awaited him. There, the Dragon taught him the Dovahzul, the language of Dragons, which the Assassin had craved to learn since he had met the old Dragon. At midday, when hunger began to grip his stomach, he descended the mountain. Elisif awaited him in the northern wing of the fortress, where they ate their small lunch. They spent every afternoon together, and the woman willingly stood by the side of the Dragonborn even when, come dusk, he joined the Greybeards in their training of the Voice. She proudly observed that, despite them being the masters, Azrael was way above his teachers in power. The hermits admitted that nonchalantly, and their imperturbable humility taught Elisif a lesson that would have served her well in her days as a ruler.

When night came, they all gathered in the dining chamber. They ate their dinner in utter silence, and the Assassin had warned the woman not to say a thing. No written code dictated that, but it was a habit worth preserving. 'Take it as a personal exercise,' he had told her. 'There are moments to scream, moments to talk and moments to be silent.' Afterwards, they went to their beds. The Greybeards had picked two for them that were very close to one another, and they had further reduced the gap. The next day they would wake up and the same circle would play out again.

That was a dream, and every dream comes to an end. The dinner of the third day had been interrupted by Ulfric and Galmar arriving to the fortress.

The day after, at midday, the imperial delegation had reached High Hrothgar.

Azrael and Elisif looked at each other for a moment, during which there was nothing but silence. The Assassin decided at last to end it. He slowly raised and leaned against the wall. 'We'd better go.'

'I'll join you later,' she said, slipping out of the sheets. 'I need to get dressed.'

'Yes, you do. Don't spend too much time combing your hair to perfection. None of the participants of this meeting is known for being patient.'

'Don't worry.'

Azrael left the room. He paced quickly towards the central hall, where the members of the imperial delegation were being welcomed. As soon as he turned the corner he caught sight of General Tullius, Legate Rikke and Jarl Balgruuf. The latter was theoretically neutral, but had come in the company of the imperials. A thing that was sure to anger Ulfric.

The Assassin looked, built the links and connections between men and their allegiances and restrained from laughing. The graver the matter, the pettier humans became. When discussing of everyday life there was no such thing that could be considered an unforgivable insult. But politics? Showing up in the company of the wrong person, casting glances at someone, using an adjective the wrong way could lead to diplomatic catastrophes.

Still, there were indiscretions and indiscretions. Balgruuf was justifiable, but the one who stood behind the Jarl? Because at the rear of the group was Elenwen. _Probably not acceptable,_ thought the Assassin, and it was better for him if she wasn't there.

Azrael was uncertain about her being there, but after having heard Elisif's opinion he trusted his judgment: that was done only to be spiteful. Elenwen was there, but Tullius was probably the one playing the puppeteer. Azrael didn't think him that smart, but he could have. That Altmer was sure to cause havoc, and the Stormcloaks wouldn't tolerate her presence. By the time though, Azrael had already decided what to do with her.

He walked right towards them. He greeted the General and the Legate, and then approached the Thalmor. She looked at him menacingly, nearly standing on tiptoe to emphasize her slight height advantage. The Assassin looked at her without any sign of concern, red eyes leering right at her while a mock-serious grin warped his lips.

'So you are this Dragonborn I've been hearing about?' she asked, inquisitive and venomous.

'Indeed,' replied Azrael.

'I'm…'

'No need for introductions,' he cut her off, lowering the hood. 'I believe we've already met.'

General Tullius and Legate Rikke had already turned towards them, distractively, but now their gazes changed from absent to focused. The angered look on the Almer's face was frightening, especially since they don't often show their resentment openly. Elenwen in particular was known to be annoyingly indifferent and cool, but it looked like she was about to lose her composure.

'You…' she hissed. 'How could you…'

'No words on that,' the Assassin warned, with a leer. 'You'll not say a thing about that incident. Am I clear?'

'I'll explain to everyone here that you have violated…'

'I haven't violated anyone or anything. Well, killed some of your soldiers, but they looked expendable. And, while we're at it, you so much mention that thing again and your head rolls on the floor outside of this fortress. Alright?'

'Dragonborn!' Arngeir called him off. 'We're here to negotiate a truce. Threatening the guests isn't going to help!'

'She's not a welcome one,' he replied, coldly.

'She's part of Tullius' delegation. It's her right to stay here.'

'Is it?' Scorn rang loud in those words. 'Master,' the Dragonborn said, looking the at the old man, 'don't bother pretending. You hate her as much as I do, maybe more. The truce negotiated today is temporary and serves one purpose: giving us the opportunity to defeat the Dragons. We don't need people like her, here.'

In all that, Elenwen stood still, fuming. She could do nothing, because in that place she was far away from Thalmor jurisdiction, and there were some enemies she couldn't afford to face. Out of all of them though, that arrogant Dunmer might have been the one she least expected. Her travel companions seemed to have a high esteem of him, even General Tullius. She turned to the Greybeard, awaiting the final verdict.

The man sighed. The sigh of an old man who has seen too much of the world. 'You're right, Dragonborn. My personal feeling don't allow me to gain a clear view. The Ambassador stays, but I'll not oppose your judgment, should you decide otherwise.'

'We'll see,' the Assassin answered. He turned to the other members of the imperial lobby. 'General, Legate… Please take your seats; you too, Balgruuf. We'll be ready in a matter of minutes.'

'As you wish, Dragonborn,' promptly replied the Legate.

The four went towards the chamber where the meeting was supposed to take place. Balgruuf looked back to the Assassin, seeking some kind of reassurance, which the Dragonborn readily gave him in the form of a wink. Elenwen casted glances over her shoulders, and didn't manage to hide her distress. She walked uncomfortably, yet still proudly, at the rear of the group.

The Greybeards watched them disappear behind the corner, only then turning their attention to Azrael. The gaze of the Dunmer cooled, the mocking look molding into a glacial expression.

'Hope she won't give us any more problems,' he said.

'We all hope that,' replied Arngeir, heaving a deep sigh. He looked tired. His eyebrows were furrowed. 'So, you've done it. The men of violence are gathered here, in these halls whose very stones are dedicated to peace.'

'Peace?' The Assassin laughed grimly. 'That word is unknown to them.'

'Very true, Dragonborn,' concurred the old man. 'They may put their weapons down for a moment, but only to gather strength for the next bloodletting. They are not yet tired of war. Far from it. Do you know the ancient Nord word for war? Season Unending. So it has proved. But… Regrets are pointless. Here we are.'

'What do you want me to do, Master?'

'Take your seat at the council table and let's see what wisdom we can find in these warriors or Skyrim.'

Azrael replied with a slight bow and was about to walk away. Just before he could turn the corner, they heard the gates of the castle squeaking. The Assassin listened to the series of the sounds, and understood the movements of the gate. It was opening. Someone was entering the fortress, but there was no one else that was supposed to attend the meeting. Aside from…

 _Received my letter awful quick, then…_ the Assassin thought, finally connecting the pieces.

Delphine and Esbern walked in the room. She wore a full, shining suit of armor. Azrael had seen it inside Sky Haven Temple. It was the plate of the Blades. The akaviri-styled metal layers formed a solid cuirass, one that a sword might have trouble piercing even with a strong thrust. She held the helmet under her armpit and rested her hand on her hip. Esbern wore some newer robes, of the same brown and blue of the armor of his colleague. Nothing new in his attire beside the new boots. They were made of leather and metal, but were not part of the heavy suit Delphine wore.

The Assassin looked at them intently. Their faces were serious, but way more relaxed and stress-free than when he had last seen them. Delphine's face was less tense and edgy, and overall a bit less aggressive. Esbern looked ten years younger than what he showed down in the Ratway. Azrael recognized a satisfied expression when he saw one. He had ended the lives of many people as they were in that ecstasy. Now he could afford to watch and savor the good his work had done for others.

'Didn't waste any time, I see,' said the Assassin, sniggering.

'We immediately set off as soon as we received your message.' Delphine approached him and smiled faintly. 'You were kind to send the invitation to us.'

'We considered replying, but we thought we would move around faster than a courier, in these times,' explained Esbern, crossing his hands behind his back.

'What does this mean?' Arngeir asked, stepping between the Blades and the Dragonborn. 'Why are you here?'

Delphine stood firm and raised her head straight. 'The Dragonborn himself has invited us.'

The gaze the old man casted at Azrael was a mix of disbelief and shock. 'Did you really do this, Dragonborn? I thought I had been clear on what we think of the Blades, here. Why did you invite them?'

'Because they're my friends and allies,' replied the Assassin, glacially. The warm grin had left his lips. 'And you know why they're here. To attend the Council. They're your allies, in this instance.'

'We will never ally ourselves with the Blades.'

Delphine put her other hand on her hip as well. 'We don't need your allegiance… Arngeir, is it? We just need you to let us in. We'll not step in this lonely place ever again after this.'

'You are not welcome here.'

'We have as much right to be at this council as all of you. More, actually, since we were the ones that put the Dragonborn on this path.'

'Were you?' scowled the hermit, grimacing. 'The hubris of the Blades knows no bounds.'

'If it were up to you,' the woman hissed back, 'the Dragonborn would sit dreaming on this mountain doing nothing!'

Azrael looked at Esbern as the old man put a fatherly hand on the woman's shoulder. 'Delphine,' he calmly said to her, 'we're not here to rehearse old grudges.' Afterwards, he turned his attention to the Greybeards. 'The matter at hand is urgent. Alduin must be stopped. You wouldn't have called this council if you didn't agree. We know a great deal about the situation and the threat that Alduin poses to us all. You need us here if you want this council to succeed.'

'You shall not…'

'Master.'

Azrael's reprimand was sudden and cut off the old man. The two Blades and the four Greybeards looked at him, and Arngeir did with particular attention. His tone hadn't been reproachful or accusatory, it was just a call to reason. The Assassin bent his head and his red eyes flashed faintly.

'Dragonborn?' the old man asked, respectfully.

'They are not your enemy now. There are two parties that are negotiating peace and that in reality will try to tear each other to pieces. You are the ones guaranteeing the peace, and your only allies are the members of the only other impartial faction.'

The hermit lowered his head, and then casted a tired glance in the direction of the Dragonborn. 'My enemy's enemy is my friend, or so they say.' He heaved a deep, exhausted sigh and then turned towards the two Blades. 'Very well then. The Dragonborn has spoken. You may enter. Follow us.'

The four men paced towards the council chamber, followed along by the two Blades. Delphine winked at Azrael, and he in turn placed a hand on her shoulder. The Assassin wasn't so sure that his arguments would have sufficed in convincing the Graybeards, but they had given in without too much pressure. When Arngeir managed to link an occurring situation with an idiom or aphorism, it meant he understood the greater good beside the momentary evil. The lesser evil. He usually forfeited when that happened.

They all walked in the small corridor. The Dragonborn needed to wait for one more person, which didn't leave him waiting for long.

'Sweetheart!'

'Here,' coldly replied the Assassin. 'Come on, everyone's waiting.'

'How do I look?'

Elisif wore a dark green dress with a thin golden lacework that drew vague shapes on the garment. The skirt was straight, but not too tight. She had combed her hair as well as she could, since there was no one helping her and Azrael wasn't the right person for the job anyway. Still, loose and slicked back like she had done was enough. She brought along no makeup, but the Assassin didn't mind that in any way. She would have still been the most beautiful woman in the room by a long shot.

'You look colorful.'

The woman shot a fake and droll glare at the Dragonborn. He laughed heartily.

'Fine,' he conceded. 'You look fabulous.'

'That's more like it,' she said, grinning and imperiously linking arms with him. 'I think we should join the others before they start cutting each other to bits.'

'Well said.'

The short corridor led to the chamber where the council was to take place. It housed a long, elliptic table with a large bonfire burning in the middle of the hall. Azrael's seat was on the opposite side of the entrance and opposed to the one of Arngeir. It was set this way to help prevent the impossible occurrence of a blood bath threatening to take place. The two sides were separated by the table, and at both end of that same table stood the two most powerful individuals in the room.

Azrael withdrew his arm immediately after they entered the chamber. He didn't want anyone to prematurely see something that would suggest his support to one specific side. He calmly kept walking, pacing quicker than Elisif just to fake indifference.

She, in turn, got to the seat beside him and got stopped by Legate Rikke. 'Your seat's beside the General, my Jarl,' she said.

'My seat,' she said, proudly tossing her head backwards, 'is beside the Dragonborn.'

'But I…'

'Legate,' Azrael intervened, 'you sit beside the General, the Jarl will sit beside me.'

The woman complied, sensing the compulsory note in his voice. The General looked first at the Legate then at the Assassin, but moved his gaze away the moment Elisif's one fell on him. Azrael tried to clear his mind of all the petty taunts and tricks. There would have already been too much to keep track of during the negotiation itself. Speaking of which, all where standing near their seats and read to begin.

'Now that everyone is here, please take your seat, so we can begin,' opened Arngeir. 'I hope we have all come here in the spirit…'

'No!' Ulfric's voice cracked the air. Everyone had sat down aside from him and Galmar, and they were looking with murderous glares towards Elenwen. 'You insult us by bringing her to this council? Your chief Talon-hunter?'

His observation caused quite a bit of commotion in the hall. Azrael slowly reached for Elisif's hand and squeezed it gently. She turned in his direction and smiled faintly. Comments muttered lowly or groaned through clenched teeth resounded in the small chamber. Balgruuf cringed, mumbling something indistinct, while Rikke murmured a way louder 'that didn't take long.' The two Blades bent towards one another and started whispering in each other's ear, while Arngeir lowered his head and shook it slowly.

The Assassin decided it was time to begin evaluating the situation. He quickly cast a glance at everyone, making quick estimations. Overall, not a lot of those present wished for Elenwen to be there. The Stormcloaks had just expressed their disagreement, the Greybeards weren't fans and the two Blades surely would have liked to see her head roll on the floor in that very moment. In any case, the Thalmor's departure seemed the more diplomatic choice overall.

'I have every right to be at this negotiation,' she said. 'I need to ensure that nothing is agreed to here that violates the terms of the White-Gold Concordat.'

'She's part of the imperial delegation,' Tullius continued. 'You can't dictate who I bring to this council.'

'Please,' exhaled Arngeir. 'If we have to negotiate the terms of the negotiation, we will never get anywhere. Perhaps this would be a good time to get the Dragonborn's input on this matter.'

'Your hero's input doesn't and shouldn't concern any of us,' the Altmer snapped back. 'He's a criminal, a murderer and one that has brought great offense to the Thalmor. As far as it concerns me, he should be killed right now.'

Several murmurs ran through the hall, but only one person had the nerve to answer. 'Let's see…' Elisif giggled, a wry smile on her face. 'Criminal, murderer and has brought great offense to his enemies. Sounds just like what you Thamor do.'

'Elisif!' screamed the General, outraged. You…'

'Drop it, Tullius.' The Dragonborn's voice was cold, his red eyes staring right in the golden ones of Elenwen. Everyone stopped speaking, even the murmurs came to an end. He continued, calmly. 'Elenwen is going to leave. If anything, because her opinion counts for nothing, here. I don't think the terms of the Concordat speak of a compulsory presence of the Thalmor at every discussion. Even if that's not the case, she's still going away. The conditions of that White-gold piece of paper thingy are not respected either way. If I remember right, the pact scheduled the dismantling of the Blades. Two of them are sitting right by your side.'

'And like you, they should be culled down without a moment's thought.'

The venomous retort was badly received. Maybe for a lack of diplomacy or the miscalculation of the real power she held over the council, she had made a grave misstep.

The Assassin stole an amused leer at the Altmer, and then turned towards Arngeir. 'Master, have her expelled from the fortress. She's to stay outside, in the cold, until we're finished.'

'This is torture,' she declared. 'I'll not allow this.'

'I don't care. Nobody cares. And if you don't die of congealment now, I can assure you my eyes will be the last thing you see.'

Wulgar and Borri stood behind the Altmer, who raised with an offended look on her face. The Assassin could see way past that mask though. She was afraid and incandescent. The three walked away. Thy hadn't yet turned the corner when Arngeir resumed the discussion.

'Now that that's settled, may we proceed?'

'I have something to say, first,' Ulfric intervened, before even having sat down on his seat. His phrase was followed by another round of whispers and venom, but he didn't care. 'The only reason I agreed to attend this council was to deal with the Dragon menace. There's nothing else to talk about, unless the Empire is finally ready to renounce its unjust claim to rule over the free people of Skyrim.' And more mumbles echoed weakly in the chamber. Azrael fired murderous glares at those who continued muttering, and they gradually closed their mouths shut. Ulfric, meanwhile, kept talking. 'We're here to arrange a temporary truce to allow the Dragonborn here to deal with the Dragons. Nothing more. I consider even talking to the Empire a generous gesture.'

'Are you done?' Tullius shot back. Azrael shook his head. _The more in control of the situation they want to look, the more childish they appear._ The General kept on his pointless reproach. 'Did you just come here to make speeches or can we get down to business?'

'Yes, let's get this over with.'

'One thing they can agree on,' giggled Elisif, shifting the hand the Assassin was still gripping. 'I almost can't believe it.'

Azrael shrugged and looked at Arngeir, giving him a slight nod.

'Are we ready to proceed?' asked the Grybeard. Nobody answered, so he started his own, brief monologue. 'Jarl Ulfric, General Tullius. This council is unprecedented. We are gathered here at the Dragonborn's request. I ask that you all respect the spirit of High Hrothgar and do your best to begin the process of achieving a lasting peace in Skyrim,' he said, although his tone alone revealed how little he trusted his own words. 'Who would like to open the negotiation?'

'Yes, let's get down to it,' rejoined Ulfric, and afterwards he looked at Tullius. 'We want control of Markarth. That's our price for agreeing to a truce.'

Everybody stopped, in shock, for a second. All save for the Dragonborn and Arngeir. The former laughed under his breath and the latter heaved a sigh. They crossed gazes, and awaited for the others to come back to their senses.

'So that's why you're here, Ulfric?' said Elisif, chuckling. 'Insulting the Greybeards by using this council to advance your own position?'

Tullius turned towards her with an angry frown. 'Jarl Elisif, I'll handle this.'

'General, this is ridiculous,' she insisted. 'You can't be taking this demand seriously! I thought we were here to discuss a truce!'

'Elisif! Stop this now!'

'General, we…'

She stopped. The Assassin had squeezer her hand tighter. She turned, and he gave her a wry grin. His darkened gaze, thought scornful, was meaningful.

She turned at the man. 'Fine, do what you need to do.'

Tullius and Ulfric started talking and discussing, but she ignored them. She bent right, closer to Azrael. He saw her and leaned in her direction, while still keeping a close eye on the two army leaders.

'I didn't think this would have worked like this.'

'They try to conquer in talks what they're unable to conquer in battle. Don't worry, it's normal. I understand your shock, you're thinking of that Hold and those people like it was your own. That's good. You care about your subjects, it means you're an excellent ruler. But stay out of this, just this once. It's not your land they're treating like a petty coin.'

It wasn't, but she couldn't help but feel bad about it. She focused again on the talk. Arngeir had intervened, advocating for Ulfric's lack of diplomacy, explaining the Stormcloaks surely didn't want 'something for nothing'.

'Wait, General!' intervened Balgruuf. 'Are you seriously about to hand Markarth over to him? Is that how the Empire repays our loyalty?'

'Enough!' yelled the General. 'First, let's be clear. This council wasn't my idea. I think it's a waste of time. You,' he said, tilting his head towards Ulfric, 'are a traitor to the Empire and deserve a traitor's death. But I, at least will negotiate in good faith.'

'Who was the one mocking Ulfric for making speeches?' whispered Elisif, putting more venom in her words than a Chaurus could in its bite.

Azrael wasn't able to reply. Tullius turned towards him shortly after. 'Since we're all here at your request, I'd like to heard what you think Markarth is worth.'

'Riften?' he proposed .

'Yes…' agreed Tullius. 'The Rift would secure our communications with Cyrodiil, and threaten Ulfric's southern flank…' The General turned once again to his adversary. 'You heard him, Ulfric. We've made you a fair offer. Are you serious about these talks or are you just here to posture?'

The Bear of Eastmarch rose from his seat and put both fists down on the table. He was glaring at the Assassin with all the bitterness he could muster. Azrael sneered mockingly at him.

'I expected better from you, Dragonborn,' he said. 'I came here in good faith and now it seems you help the Empire at every turn. As for you, General Tullius, I see now that Galmar was right. Talking to the Empire is just as useless as ever. If you think you can hold Markarth, you're as deluded as your Emperor when he signed away our freedom to the Thalmor. Skyrim will never again bow to a false Empire! Let's go, Galmar,' he said to the huge man accompanying him. 'I should have listened to you in the first place.'

'You always were a fool, Ulfric. You're no better at diplomacy than you are on the battlefield.'

'Look who's talking,' the man spit back, contemptuously. 'You represent the Empire, here. What Empire? Your liberty was sold to those Elves, and your country is without a ruler. You're without an Emperor, and you are here saying something to me?'

Tullius was taken aback, but didn't show it excessively. 'The political crisis originated by the assassination of Emperor Titus Mede will be shortly resolved, and the next ruler will give me the same orders as he did: crush the rebellion with every means necessary.'

'Any means necessary, is that it? That includes abusing of a sold out Dragonborn. Look at him there,' he said, pointing at him in accusation, 'flirting with the bitch you propose as High Queen of Skyrim. I'll never come down to anything with people like him.'

'Yeah…' said the Assassin, giving a grim but hearty laugh. 'Where I come from, we call that envy. I bet you'd like to be here, in my place, flirting with her.'

'Never.'

'Why not?' he sneered. 'She beautiful, powerful and intelligent. Tell me, why not?'

'You should have stuck with your elven women. You're not worthy, you are Dragonborn but… You're not.'

Ulfric's awkward retort caused many to snigger. Arngeir watched the scene half in consternation and half in amusement. Never before words like these had been spoken in the halls of High Hrothgar. A sign of the times, maybe. The winds of change were blowing. Ulfric, the serious man that never joked, was being humiliated by a wisecracking Dunmer that didn't even sit properly in his seat. And not any wisecracking Dunmer, but the Dragonborn. Probably the most powerful mortal to walk Nirn at those times. The whole situation had something pathetic and yet strangely poetic about it.

'You wretched, spiteful grey-skin,' Ulfric said. 'I won't…'

'Stop!' yelled Esbern, raising from his seat. He coughed, the old age didn't help his lungs, but stoically kept going. 'Are you so blind to our danger that you can't see past your petty disagreements? Here you sit arguing about… nothing! While the fate of the land hangs in the balance!'

Ulfric scowled, ignoring the old man and turning towards Delphine instead. 'Is he with you? If so, I advise you to tell him to watch his tongue.'

'He is with me,' she hissed, threateningly. 'And I advise you both to listen to what he has to say, before you do anything rash.'

'Don't you understand the danger?' continued Esbern, once silence had fallen once again. 'Don't you understand what the return of the Dragons means? Alduin has returned! The World-Eater! Even now, he devours the souls of your fallen comrades! He grows more powerful with every soldier slain in your pointless war! Can you not put aside your hatred for even one moment in the face of this mortal danger?'

'Master,' said Ulfric to Arngeir, 'is it true, what he and the Dragonborn have claimed? About Alduin?'

'It is true, Ulfric. The Devourer of Worlds has returned,' the hermit confirmed, gravely.

'Then we both have just as much to lose here, Tullius, remember that.'

'I don't know about the end of the world,' Tullius cleared out, always treating his ignorance of the legends as an ace up his sleeve. 'But this Dragon situation has gotten out of hand. If this truce will help the Dragonborn here put an end to that menace then you're right, we both gain. Now, Ulfric, Don't hand me a mug of sheep's piss and call it Colovian brandy. These terms are still not acceptable.'

Azrael cocked an eyebrow. The situation had surely lost much of its formality already.

'Out with it, then,' the Bear of Eastmarch conceded.

'We want compensation for the massacre at Karthwasten.'

The Assassin crossed eyes with Elisif, and both frowned in doubt. Azrael shook his head, and chose to hear what Legate Rikke had to say on the matter.

'You slaughtered the very people you claim to be fighting for! True sons of Skyrim would never do such things.'

'Damned Imperial lies!' roared Galmar. 'My men would never stoop to such methods, even in retaliation for your butchery at…'

'Hold on for a moment…' the Dragonborn intervened. 'The letter coming from Karthwasten specifically said it was the Forsworn who killed those people. What are you claiming, Tullius? That Stormcloaks killed them? How? Whiterun is neutral, but it still pushes back all Stormcloak units. How did they get all the way there? I don't know about it, but it sounds like nonsense to me.'

'And once again, the Empire takes the blame for the crimes of others…' muttered the General.

'No one blamed you,' replied the Assassin, a wry grin playing out on his lips. 'I'm just saying it wasn't them who did it.'

'Maybe you are their agent,' continued the man, undauntedly. 'Maybe the one before was just a farce. You use your power here to make us treat your opinion as undeniable truth. I would like to remind you that your records are not clean. The Penitus Oculatus are still verifying whether you're not Vittoria Vici's assassin or not.'

'I seem to remember them saying it was the Dark Brotherhood's doing.'

'And who's to say the Dark Brotherhood didn't act on your order? Yours or anyone else's?'

'Well…' sighed the Dragonborn, sounding like he was about to confess something. 'You see, I actually am the one who did that. In truth, I am the Listener of the Dark Brotherhood.'

'I see you're in the mood for jests,' coolly observed the General. 'However, it doesn't look the like the right time to joke, to me.'

'I'm dead serious,' insisted Azrael, a sly sneer warping his shadowed lips.

Delphine, on the other side of the room, cringed. She exchanged glances with Esbern and even with Arngeir, who was almost smiling at that. They knew, they were the only ones that knew. Azrael was mocking those men like no one had ever done before in known history. And the cringeworthy was not over.

'You'd better not insult the Dragonborn, Tullius,' said Ulfric, all of a sudden. 'You have to thank him for saving the world.'

'Wasn't he the one mocking you a moment past?' Elisif whispered to the Assassin. He shrugged, sniggering under his breath.

'And you'd better shut your mouth, Ulfric,' rejoined Tullius. 'But I want to bring another matter on the negotiation table. Rarh, the so called Silver Tongue. He was to come to terms with you, about the war conditions. You killed him and sent his head back in a sack. A diplomat, neutral, and you killed him. I want to know what the Dragonborn will say to this.'

Azrael nodded slowly, placing both his hands behind his neck. 'I suppose this is more reasonable. Even I have heard. Compensation should be given for him.'

'Not much different for what happened to Roggvir, but whatever…' mumbled Ulfric. 'Just for the sake of getting this over, the terms are acceptable.'

The Assassin smiled as he saw Arngeir drawing a deep breath of relief and standing.

'It seems,' he exhaled, exhausted, 'we may have an agreement.'

 _High time we did,_ thought the Dragonborn, with a baleful sneer.


	14. To the Skies

Elisif was waiting for Azrael in the main hall of Dragonsreach. There was nobody there to stay with her, aside from the two sentinels standing guard by the gate. The others had all moved over to the courtyard, and were waiting impatiently. Rightfully so, too. Elisif herself was a little bit tense and on edge. Azrael had taken his sweet time arriving in Whiterun, and didn't really explain anyone why he was absent. He had arrived in the city with the first daylight and had apparently stopped by at Jorrvaskr, of all places. The guards told her he was coming to the fortress just in that moment.

The wings of the stronghold's gate opened, and the Assassin walked in. The guards straightened and raised their heads. 'Hail the Dragonborn!' they shouted, greeting him. Elisif waited for him to reach her at the top of the stairs.

'Expecting me, are you?' he asked.

'Of course I am,' she answered. 'About time you arrived. Everyone's waiting for you. What have you been doing?'

'Already told you. I do not know what awaits me after this, I just wanted to make sure everyone received their farewell.'

She lowered her head slightly. The thought he could suffer or die never left her, and it stung deep down her throat. She repeated to herself time and time again that he didn't fear death, and so she shouldn't have either. It didn't work. The freezing grip on her gut never weakened.

To her surprise, the Assassin sniggered. 'Look at you,' he said. 'The face of a woman who doesn't want to lose something she has so recently found.'

Those words described what she felt perfectly. In the more selfish of its interpretation, but that was the one she usually gave. It felt like the more honest, and maybe the one that held the largest part of the truth. She looked in his eyes and found some comfort in those calm, crimson chasms. How he managed to stay calm in such a situation was beyond her, but she at least understood where that came out.

Azrael didn't say anything more. He just weaved his gloved hands around her slim waist and embraced her. She in turn grabbed the nape of his neck and pulled his head a bit down, making their lips touch. Their breaths deepened and quickened, until they finally let go of one another, temporarily satiated.

'Now,' she said, 'tell me what happened in Jorrvaskr.'

'It was… Strange at first. Coming back to a place that hasn't altered makes you realize how much you've changed.'

* * *

Two knocks on the door. The heavy wooden portal opens, without anyone giving the newcomer permission to enter. Farkas turns towards the entrance, Vilkas too. Ria interrupts her conversation with Athis and looks at the door. A grim, cloaked figure walks in. 'Hey,' says Farkas, 'and who are you to…'

'Silence, Shield-brother!' Athis admonishes him. 'He's the Harbinger.'

A long, embarrassed silence follows. Vilkas steps ahead and greets the newcomer with a slight bow. 'Harbinger… How may I serve you?' The others are quick to imitate him. In the months that have gone past, the Dunmer has been nowhere to be seen. The respect the Companions had for him slowly turned into fear and fright. They wished for this day to never come, and yet it has.

Azrael stands at their doorstep. They know not if he intends to kill them or what.

'Rise, Vilkas,' says the Assassin. The Companions is shocked. The tone of his master is anything but threatening. If anything, it's scornful. 'The first thing you say after all this time is asking if I require something of you?'

The man is unable to answer. He is too confused to create a sentence that would make sense. He's too busy understanding what just happened. That sounded a lot like what the common people told of him. Not a bad guy nor a sadist, just someone that doesn't stick to the rules as much as others do. He laughs, mocks and teases, but does no harm to the ones he wishes well.

'Fine,' the Dragonborn continues, probably tired of silence. 'I order you a simple thing. To greet me using my name, understood?'

'I… Good day to you… Azrael.'

'Good day to you, too.'

Nobody knows how to react. The Assassin slowly walks down, his tall silhouette moving silently and stealthily on the floor. Vilkas remembers that strange trait of his. He never produced much noise while walking, and from the recent rumors it seems he has perfected that ability. The two twins look at one another, uncertain on what to do next. Ria looks at Athis, with the same kind of problem in mind. Once again, Azrael puts an end to the lack of sounds.

'Don't want to talk to me? Fine, I'll take it. I don't want to talk with you, either,' he says, and his bluntness staggers all of them in their stream of thoughts. 'But, first,' he continues, 'some mundane matters to resolve. Vilkas, from now on your the leader of this band of murderers with fancy names. Got it?'

'It's an honor…'

'It's not supposed to be one,' Azrael cuts him off. 'And I don't care about your gratitude. Where's Aela?'

'In… In the courtyard,' replies Athis, struggling to find the words.

The Assassin mutters something in response. 'Farewell,' he says, and leaves the room. For most of the Companions, that was the last they saw of him. A hurried greeting and an even more hasty sendoff. The only one who gets to spend some more time with him is Aela, the Huntress, who was in the courtyard trying to deplete her strengths. Since the departure of Azrael, she has been doing anything she can to keep her mind clear. She has tried everything, including the most replicable of things. Sometimes she thinks she's going insane, but no. Insanity would be a blessing for her, since it would free her of her conscience and her memory.

The Assassin walks up to her without making any kind of noise. She's training with the dagger, striking a dummy. Azrael silently grips the Blade of Woe and moves closer, and when the time is proper he parries one of her strikes with the dagger.

'Wrong,' he says, glacially.

The Huntress turns. At first she freezes, but then her heart warms and a forgotten heat surges through her body. She backs off, freeing her weapon from the blade of the Assassin. She circles around him, and Azrael gets her game. He too begins to move, in circles as well.

The Huntress strikes. She swings past him.

'No way,' he says. 'Look for a better opening, next time.'

This time it's his turn to attack. He feigns, tricks her to parry, and afterwards immediately bends back and sweeps. The Huntress reels backwards, confused, but before she can recover a blade finds its way to her palm and applies a weak lever. Just enough to make her weapon fall from her hand.

A firm grasp keeps her from tumbling back. 'At times even the humblest of students surpass their masters. Happened to me a bunch of times, already,' Azrael says.

Aela smiles. She hasn't done that in a long time.

* * *

'And so?' Elisif asked, interested. 'What did you do?'

'I figured I could send her somewhere far away. There was a place where she could have lived peacefully.'

'Really?'

Azrael looked at the woman and smiled drolly. 'Nosy, are we not?'

'I have become such,' she answered. 'Had I not, how would my return in Solitude be? You won't be there forever, holding my hand.'

Azrael tittered darkly and heaved a deep sigh. He looked at her, shaking his head. The realistic way of saying it was the exact opposite of the romantic way to say it. That wasn't a hard choice, given who they were. In those days at High Hrothgar, their relationship had developed. They had absorbed as much as they could from one another, and now they were a lot more alike rather than complementary by that point.

'I'm afraid I won't,' he said. 'I don't even know whether I'll return alive from this mission.'

'You say that like it's the final stand.'

'Well, I do have the feeling this is all going to end awfully quick. That is why I went to talk to Aela.'

'And here you go again. What did you tell her?'

'Once, I was in Falkreath. Nothing too hot, the Dark Brotherhood had given me a contract and said I could rest for a day of two. I set out to the town, only to find a guy trapped in the prison because he hadn't been able to control his Werewolf transformation and had killed unwillingly. He had a ring that supposedly helped him, but it only made matters worse. I brought the ring to a certain guy,' he said, cocking his eyebrows and deciding to leave the Oblivion Prince avatar part out of that mess. 'And then I was to bring it back to the Werewolf. It's a long story, but let's say I assured his safety and that now he lives far away from society. That's where I sent Aela.'

'Your good deed for the day,' Elisif said, giggling.

Azrael sniggered grimly. 'I guess you could say that.'

The Dragonborn opened the two wings of the gate leading to the porch. 'Women first,' he said, dead serious and yet with an ironic look to his face. Elisif grimaced playfully and walked on, waiting for him to come ahead and close the heavy portal behind him. The guards, the Jarl, Farengar and other members of the court and city were already there, and looked at them both as they came in. To most people, they were still a disorienting sight. Azrael suspected Balgruuf had seen them kiss while still at High Hrothgar, but hadn't told anyone.

The special guest of the situation was Eorlund Grey-Mane. He was almost done working, but there were still a pair of long horns by the side of the working table. He was stringing some bows, composite bows. Azrael has asked him that favor. He had discussed with Paarthurnax before going, and the old Dragon had revealed him that, without training, uttering the name of a Dovah takes a lot of effort. He probably wouldn't have been able to use Dragonrend in immediate conjunction with the name of his sibling. They needed more conventional methods to take him down. Arrows, for example.

Twenty guards were stationed across the porch. The Assassin had forbidden the Jarl to place even one more, since the Dragon needed to feel safe and have room to maneuver. He would have also breathed flames or ice on them, and everyone needed to have a full cover to duck behind. The strategy of the fight was almost more complex than its actual tactics, which didn't involve much more than a few shots fired and a tactical withdraw by the Assassin.

'Greetings, Dragonborn!' Balgruuf welcomed him, respectfully. 'Everything has been done as you asked. Go ahead and call this Dragon of yours. We're ready when you are.'

The Assassin casted a wide glance at the vicinity. Everything did indeed seem to be in place.

'Hey, soldier, here you go,' mumbled Eorlund from behind, tossing the last bow at a nearby guard.

'Thanks,' he replied.

Azrael turned towards Elisif, bending his head slightly. 'This is the time for you to go.'

'Will you call me back when it's all over?'

'I will,' answered the Assassin. 'Now go.'

The woman walked away and went to the door on the side of the porch. Once she was out of sight, she blew a kiss in Azrael's direction. He smiled faintly and slowly turned towards the sky at the end of the porch.

'Now it begins,' he said, raising his voice a little. 'Everyone, be at the ready.'

Irileth never tired to hear how much his words carried emotions and feelings. It was as if his cold voice was hollow to the point where one could fill it with anything he or she may want. More than anything, his tone conveyed a deep calm. He feared nothing, and if he did he didn't show it. There was an acceptance in his voice, but also the will to avert bad endings at all costs. He would have acknowledged defeat and even death without batting an eyebrow, but would have also destroyed anything in his way to prevent that from happening. Actually, Irileth knew better. He would have accepted death without any external reaction, but rather with a tired and bored 'Damn, there were so much more things to do here' passing through his mind. A typical trait of Dark Elves, mastered to perfection.

The Assassin paced towards the open. The sky was clear and azure, not a cloud to be seen. A fairly average weather, for those winter days. The air was as cold as it could get, or so Azrael thought, since it was chilling him to the bone. Strangely enough, his Dragon side was helping him. All he needed to do was occasionally think of Yol, think of the fire, and his body filled with newfound heat, apparently coming from naught.

Eorlund Grey-Mane advanced slightly while looking at the Dragonborn. The Assassin had arrived at the stockade that enclosed the courtyard, beyond which was a three hundred meters fall. Azrael kept perambulating from one end of the yard to the other, at times casting calculating glances at the distances between the walls or the boundary of the yard and the porch. The old blacksmith tried to read through his logic, but it was something a more complex reasoning than he could follow.

At long last, the Dragonborn stopped, right in the middle of the courtyard. Everybody held up, waiting with bated breath.

They didn't wait for long.

'Od… Ah Viing!'

The high tension kind of dispersed in the next few seconds, because nothing significant happened. Some expected the Dragon to magically materialize in from of them, and that didn't happen. Some maybe hoped for something apocalyptic and epic to occur, and that didn't happen all the same. The wise among the ranks of the men present knew they would have needed to wait for a little time before the Dragon answered the Call.

Azrael knew better. Odahviing was had risen from a mound somewhere in the mountains separating the Rift from Cyrodiil, south of the Throat of the World. Paarthurnax had warned him, however, that after his battle with Alduin many a Dragons had come near the peak to see for themselves. The Assassin had in fact seen Odahviing already once, while climbing the Seven Thousand Steps. A huge, red monster with large wings of a faded, worn reddish color. The scales and the membranes were opaque crimson, the barbs on his back black as coal.

'Don't let yourself go,' the Dragonborn coldly reminded the five guards standing around him.

The wait felt insufferably long. The tension, while lessened in the first moments, was slowly getting worse. Some were twitching their fingers, some biting their lips and a couple even started chewing the leather gloves out of anxiety. The air itself felt stiff, unbreathable. A guard near the rear of the courtyard starting pulling out the sword and then putting back down. He did it for five times before Eorlund muttered a: 'Silence, boy. You're making things worse.'

Irileth leaned towards her Jarl, who was swallowing his own nervousness down his throat. 'Tell me, Balgruuf, will this damned winged wyrm ever come?'

'All happens in due time, Irileth, but it always does. Even if it wouldn't, I trust the Dragonborn.'

Right. Trust the Dragonborn. She trusted him, too, for that matter. They resumed the wait.

Not a long time passed before a earsplitting roar shredded the air.

Azrael turned around and looked. _Fine,_ he conceded, _we've got outsmarted. Good work, dear sibling._ The Assassin had to save his own life; the guards that were at his side would have had to take care of themselves, unfortunately. However, the world could consider itself pretty lucky considering its savior prioritized his own life over the one of others. The soldiers barely saw the Dragon sweeping down from their right.

Azrael growled in annoyance under his breath. The monster had outplayed them right at the start. It had come from behind, in the opposite direction of the wind blowing, and no one had heard his wings beating. That tactical cleverness and space management that was their peculiar trait and ability proved an important factor.

The Dragon swooped down and tore apart two soldiers with its claws. The talons dipped into the flesh and then ripped it open as the creature whipped its wings and gained some height. Azrael rolled off to the side just in time to escape, because if he hadn't done that he would have been the first to be ripped open. He looked at the bloodied corpses, rent in pieces, and sighed. Death. Just what he needed. He felt ready.

'Joor… Zah Frul!'

Odahviing screamed. The Assassin backed away, looking at the Dragon turning abruptly is search of a spot where he'd be able to land. The others, behind him, had begun moving. Balgruuf was yelling orders to the troops, the guards were coming forth with the bows and Irileth was aiming her arcane lightings at the Dragon. The whole place was moving, and there was a lot of confusion.

Eorlund Grey-Mane, the good man he was, ran towards the soldiers that had survived the Dragon's first attack. They had been thrown around, injured and traumatized. The muscles of decades spent at the forge still managed to help those men. They raised, one by one, with the help of the old blacksmith. They thanked him quickly and limped away to make some sense of what happened. The gore of their friends covered their armors and they had barely seen the giant limb that had struck them. They were fine, for now.

For Eorlund Grey-Mane, the situation was a little bit more grim. They Dragon had eyed him helping the others, and immediately clumped over to him. The old Nord grabbed his trusted warhammer and swung with all the strengths his elderly arms could muster. The Dragon bent its head and completely avoided the hit.

'Everyone, double back!'

The Dragonborn's order, given in his familiar deep and cool tone, reached him as if he was far away. He paid little attention to it. The Dragon moved his neck around, raised on its clawed wings and snapped its head forward. The teeth clenched abruptly with the muffled, unmistakable sound of bladed objects cutting through human flesh.

Azrael was looking, but again could do nothing. _Damn it…_ he swore, but didn't stop executing the plan. Lunging against the Dragon while cursing its name and wishing it everlasting suffering would not have resurrected Eorlund, nor won them the battle. Every piece of the mechanism needed to work, and he was the biggest cog. No room for error, and no time for it either.

The soldiers were doing their job. Balgruuf was barking out instructions, and was saying them right. The guards all ducked behind the walls, and Azrael saw the Dragon trying and immediately renouncing to Shout them to Oblivion. It lumbered onward, eyes now well fixed on the Dragonborn. The Assassin, on his part, stood there without moving and with no weapons drawn. He continued to backpedal, keeping a fair distance between him and his sibling.

Odahviing looked in the eyes of the Dragonborn, and saw a challenge in them. The puny mortal who, in spite of his more than humble origin, had downed the World Eater itself, now stood before the Red Dragon. The reason why he had called upon it was unknown, but the Dovah had awaited to confront him ever since Alduin had been defeated. The glare in the Dovahkiin's gaze looked sincere.

The Red Dragon understood it was a lie only when the noise of a chain filled the air and a heavy wooden bar fell on its neck, smashing one of its barbs.

 _Dragons…_ thought Azrael, smirking. _So clever and so intelligent and yet they just can't distinguish the false from the true. Such low trickery managed to get it. You might have your ways to dominate us, but we mortal have our ways of tricking you._

Screams of victory resounded just under the dazed roars of the Dragon.

'We got him!'

'He's down!'

'Well done, boys!'

'Silence.'

Everyone obeyed the Dragonborn's command. The cries stopped at once and the murmurs died off in the next following seconds. The Red Dragon raised its head, a different kind of light now stirring its deep gaze.

'Horvutah med kodaav,' muttered the Dovah, with a low and cavernous voice. The sound of it was hollow. 'Caught like a bear in a trap… Zu'u bonaar. You went to a great deal of trouble to put me in this… humiliating position. Hind siiv Alduin? No doubt you want to know where to find Alduin?'

'Where is he hiding?'

'Rinik vazah. An apt phrase. Alduin bovul. One reason I came to your call was to test your Thu'um myself. Many of us have begun to question Alduin's lordship, whether his Thu'um was truly the strongest. Among ourselves, of course. Mu ni meyye. None were yet ready to openly defy him.'

'Tinvaak zeim Sul,' replied the Dragonborn, in the astonishment of the mortals and the content of the immortal.

'Piraak hi Dovahzul?' asked the Dragon, his tone mysteriously less resounding and more pleasant.

'Geh, Odahviing. I speak the Dragon Tongue. But we'll converse later. Now tell me about Alduin.'

'He has travelled to Sovngarde to regain his strength, devouring the sillesejour… the souls of the mortal dead. A privilege he jealously guards… His door to Sovngarde is at Skuldafn, one of his ancient fanes high in the eastern mountains. Mindoraan, pah ok middovahhe lahvraan til. I surely do not need to warn you that all his remaining strength is marshaled there. Zu'u lost ofan hin laan… now that I have answered your question, you will allow me to go free?'

'Have you told me everything there is to know? What of Skuldafn? How do I get there?'

'Ah, well…' the Dragon mumbled. It almost looked like he was ashamed of something. 'Hmm… krosis. There is one detail about Skuldafn I neglected to mention. You have the Thu'um of a dovah, but without the wings of one, you will never set foot in Skuldafn. Of course, I could fly you there. But not while imprisoned like this.'

'Is this your offer?'

'You will release me, ro laan, if in return I promise to take you to Skuldafn and stop helping Alduin.'

'Motmahus…' whispered the Dragonborn, tittering. 'This is not simple, but I see no other choice.'

'Onikaan koraav gein miraad,' commented the Dragon. 'It is wise to recognize when you only have one choice.'

Azrael stepped back twice, backing from the mechanism and from the head of the Red Dragon. Everyone, even if for no reason as all, imitated him movement. The Assassin casted glances at the guards on top of the stairs, the ones maneuvering the trap.

'Release it!'

'Dragonborn…' muttered one of them, shaking. 'Is this wise? Can we trust the thing?'

'We can,' he answered. 'It's we that have captured it, this Dragon has done nothing more than answer my call. Besides, Alduin is far and powerless. Odahviing goes its own way, from now on.'

The Red Dragon shook its head, growling. 'Faas nu, zini dein ruthi ahst vaal,' it snarled out.

'What is he saying?' asked Balgruuf.

'That we don't need to be afraid, for his honor holds his resentment back. Come, what are you doing, sleeping?' he asked sharply. 'I said release it!'

'You sure about it? After all the trouble…'

'Yes, I'm sure. Spare me your fears and move.'

The cogs moved, and even in the loud noise came the gloomy comments. 'It's our funeral' or 'This looks like a very bad idea to me'. Balgruuf himself ordered the solders to carry on, but his command served only the purpose of giving the troops and assurance, for they'd gladly obey the Dragonborn alone. Actually, if the Dovahkiin and their Jarl had ordered them to do opposite things, they weren't so sure as to whose command obey.

The trap rose, freeing the creature from its grip. Odahviing growled lowly and shook its head, turning around and lumbering towards the open. It didn't give a single glance to anyone aside Azrael, who gave it a nod of confirmation. He needed to say farewell, then he'd come.

The Assassin turned towards the soldiers, the Jarl, and all the others who had helped him. He looked for Eorlund for a moment, but then remembered that the old man rested peacefully in the belly of Odahviing, which had swallowed him whole.

'People of Skyrim,' began the Dragonborn, with a tone that was half dead serious half ironic. 'I thank you for your help. Should I return from this journey, you'll be the one thanking me.'

'It's been a pleasure for all of us, Dovahkiin,' answered Jarl Balgruff for all his subjects. 'It was an honor to fight at your side. The men died this day will be remembered for eternity.'

Azrael listened and did a small movement with his head as an acknowledgment. Then, his eyes shifted left. Provetus Avenicci was returning from the main hall, and Elisif was walking right beside him. Many of the men followed the Dragonborn's gaze, and looked back at him.

'If you can,' said the Assassin, this time definitely serious, 'leave us alone for a moment.'

Azrael looked at her as she approached. Her usual merry, teasing smirk had turned into an ironic and sad grin. The smile hadn't faded off her face, that was good, but it was different. The Assassin gazed one last time at the men behind as they turned, dispersed and backed away, and then looked at her.

 _My woman,_ he said to himself, almost not believing himself. _My lover. Strange… You understand the price of something only as that something is slipping away. A reminder for another time._ He kept looking at her even as she reached him and stood in front of him. Even with her being shorter than him by a head at least, she seemed fierce all the same. _Even if it's the last time together, it's been good. We've had a marvelous time together._

'So…' she began, 'you're leaving.'

'I am. Off to save the world or… something.'

His cynical heedlessness and deadpan humor immediately revived her, having two opposite and yet dreadfully similar effects. First, at the thought of losing him too, she felt hot tears coming to her eyes and sobs creeping up her throat. But second, she felt even more tears coming up her eyes. Out of nowhere, she found herself shaking with laughter. That was the effective and contiguous way Azrael the Assassin lived his life. Life's a laugh and death's an awful joke.

That was the way a murderer sees life, and maybe also the way a sovereign sees life. After all, the two sides of Fate live in osmosis and constantly influence each other. Maybe that's their biggest point in common.

'Come back, will you?'

'I'll try, you can be sure as Oblivion of that.'

'I can't bare this place without you. You need to come back intact.'

'Write Alduin and ask it to go easy on me.'

'Do you know his address?'

'I do, for a change. Sovngarde, don't know the street nor the number, though.'

'Can you be my messenger, then?'

'I presume,' he said, shrugging. Jarl Balgruuf was listening and found that humorous exchange pathetic, but that was only envy on his part. The Assassin didn't care about it. 'What should I tell our dear World Eater on account of Elisif the Fair?'

'Give him Oblivion, Azrael. Free this world from its threat. After all we've done to keep it from falling asunder it would be quite a waste to let it end.'

'Precisely what I intend to do. Vah Su'um Ven' he said, laughing. 'Farewell.'

The woman grabbed his chin and pressed her lips against his.

'Come back to me.'

Without exchanging one more word, the Assassin left the Jarl where she stood. Both had a wicked grin on their lips as they left one another. Azrael walked towards his sibling.

The Red Dragon moved its head around. 'Saraan uth, I await your command, as promised. Are you ready to see the world as only a dovah can? Zok brit uth! I warn you, once you've flown the skies of Keizaal, your envy of the dov will only increase.'

'To Skuldafn we go.'

Azrael leapt nimbly on the Dragon's back. The broken barb served as an exceptionally good sitting spot for him.

'Amativ! Mu bo kotin stinselok!' screamed the Dragon.

'Wah Fin Lok! To the Skies!' echoed the Dovahkiin.

The Red Dragon took off. Elisif looked at Azrael waving one last time at her, exclusively at her, while people behind her murmured and screamed their sendoffs.

'You're either the greatest person I've ever met or the biggest fool, my brother in blood,' mumbled Irileth.

'May Kynareth guard you while you pass through her realm!' cried Balgruuf.

The Ender had taken wings and soared. Nobody ever saw Azrael again, not the same person they had bidden farewell to. The one driven by doom and acting as the Left, Bloodied Hand of Fate.


	15. Hunter

There were things the Assassin had never seen, and some he had never suspected even existed. That journey on the wings of the Red Dragon was revealing incredible things to him. From areas that were inaccessible from the ground to zones and sections of land that fit together in ways he never imagined. Of course, his envy of the Dov increased, but only of that particular capability. There were things of the Dragons that he didn't envy at all. Those that rendered them more similar to Men than Mer, for a start.

Odahviing wasn't remotely as talkative as Paarthurnax, but it still didn't shrug when the occasion presented itself. The general distrust and misdirection Alduin's defeat had created among the Dov seemed to be an interesting subject for the Red Dragon, that kept commenting and expressing his opinions on the matter. The Assassin had a sincere interest on that topic, and pressed the Dovah forward more than once.

After a while, however, they fell on a different topic.

'Dovahkiin, tell me,' said the Red Dragon. 'I have spoken to the Old One, to Paarthurnax. He told me you are allied with the Blades.'

'I am.'

'Are you going to kill me once I've brought you to Skuldafn?'

'No.'

'Then why did you work with them?'

'Being allies among mortals is not the same thing you think,' Azrael explained. 'It's called convenience. As in… Fahdon Kod Gut. You work with someone, but don't share your Laat, your goal, with them.'

'Nust Drun Tahrovin? Did they cause any trouble?'

'No,' said the Assassin, a grin slowly making its way across his lips. 'Although they did ask me something.'

* * *

Delphine stomps the ground and groans. 'I will not let that murderer go unpunished!'

'Look what you've done in your years of existence,' Arngeir answers, fuming. 'Who are you to accuse Paarthurnax of murder? You're killers yourself, you've spent your entire, pitiful existence hunting down and killing others, Dragons or no Dragons.'

'You're protecting the very being that slaughtered your ancestors,' Esbern intervenes. 'Do you not understand the danger it poses? It could betray us just as it betrayed Alduin. It knew it would have found people like you who'd babysit it and protect it from those desiring justice.'

'Justice, is that it?' asked Arngeir. 'Few things move me, at my age, but your arrogance is intolerable. You speak of things you barely know about. Justice? Betrayal? You have never met Paarthurnax, and even so your blindness would inhibit you to see the truth. Paarthurnax is the only reason we're talking right now. Mankind would have gone extinct if not for him.'

'The lizard has done its part, fine,' rejoins Delphine, 'but it's too high a risk to keep him alive, now that Alduin is about to be defeated.'

'Don't you think Paarthurnax would have aided Alduin during its fight with the Dragonborn, had it been on its side?'

'You're clearly missing the point, old man. Your Master wants power for itself. He'll allow the Dragonborn to finish his task and then eliminate him, resuming the domination of Dragonkind over humanity and all of Nirn.'

'These frail conjectures are a mortal thing,' tiredly points out Arngeir. 'Dragons do not reason and scheme as we Men do. They are different, better. They don't come down to petty treason to get what they want.'

'Don't they?' says Esbern. 'The Dragonlore of the Blades tells otherwise. In the days of the Dragon War many sought to deceive and betray Alduin, using that low trickery you refuse to consider.'

'We cannot count the Dragon War among our examples. It was time of all out strife, and nothing was safe. Everyone was fighting for their own gain. The Dragons, their Priests and even Men.'

'In case you fail to realize, we're in an all out war even now. The Dragonborn has just prevented it from spreading.'

'Oh, yes, the Dragonborn, the wise one you are trying to trick. I'm telling you, he won't fall for it. The Gods have chosen wisely.'

'The Gods have forsaken us, Arngeir. We're on our own.'

'Delphine, moderate your tones,' Esbern advised her. 'And don't be disrespectful.'

The gates leading to the courtyard suddenly open. The black and ruby red silhouette of the Dragonborn moves in silently and advances towards the others, the hosts of the peace council and their last guests to go away. From their faces it was clear they had spent some time arguing.

'What's the matter?' Azrael asks, coolly but also lightheartedly.

'They can't get their heads over Paarthurnax being a traitor and the enemy we're trying to defeat,' vehemently says Delphine. 'It's impossible to reason with them.'

'You're not trying to reason, Delphine,' answers Arngeir. 'You're imposing your view, a view we don't share.'

'Well, too late, old man. Azrael has slain Paarthurnax by now.'

Heavy silence falls in the hall. The four Greybeards glare menacingly at the two Blades before turning back to the Dragonborn. They are incandescent.

'Dragonborn…' mutters Arngeir. 'You didn't… You can't tell me you…'

'Of course I didn't.'

Delphine bursts in rage. 'Dragonborn! I thought we had been clear! Paarthurnax needed to be eliminated! What's your excuse?'

A sneer takes shape on the lips of the Assassin. 'None in particular…' he wearily says, 'Didn't really feel like it.'

'Azrael, you…'

'I know, I know,' he interrups, as the sarcastic leer slowly fades away. 'Spare me your lecture. Thing is, Delphine, I'll never kill Paarthurnax. He has done more for me than both of you,' he says pointing towards Delphine and Arngeir, 'have done in your entire time knowing me. If I had to choose, I'd sooner kill you than that Dragon. And don't tell me I've betrayed you, because it's not true, nor that I'm blind and I can't see the real threat. I don't want to hear any of it.'

The Dragonborn casts wry stares at both the Greybeards and the Blades, and then heaves a deep sigh.

'You're an unbelievable bunch,' he says, laughing. 'You share a goal, you share a long history, you even share an enemy, and you just can't get along well like civilized folk. Seriously. Maybe you're too similar to be friends. And, one more thing, stop being jealous of me. It's driving me mad.'

'Jealous?'

'Yes. Every time I don't do something for one of you, you immediately go "damn, he must be doing his for the other guys, got to get him back on my side", or whatever. No, it's not like that. You're giving me advice, no one is giving me orders. I go my own way. You, along with Paarthurnax up there, are my teachers. You might as well try to collaborate, if anything for sake of your student.'

* * *

'Paaz,' commented Odahviing. 'A fair argument. Your ability in the Thu'um is great, Dovahkiin. Both in our tongue and in theirs. Thaarn In Hi? Did they listen to you?'

'They did,' answered Azrael, holding on tight to the spikes on the back of the Dragon. They were about to land. 'They parted in peace, and the Old One is safe.'

Odahviing landed heavily on the ground. Skuldafn lied before the eyes of the Assassin, who saw the long ascent before him and didn't feel anything in particular. _This is it_ , he said to himself, _this is the end._ But again, he didn't sense any sensation in particular. He liked that. He had always struggled to bear sentimental people, and having become the opposite of one made him feel proud. _Thanks to you, my dear, jealous teachers,_ he thought, in a last scornful stab at mankind and its vices.

'This is as far as I can take you,' the Dragon told him. 'Krif voth ahkrin. I will look for your return, or Alduin's. Mindin Zu'u Hind Hi. I hope it's you who'll come back victorious.'

'Vah Su'um Ven, Odahviing. Farewell.'

'Su'um ahrk morah, Dovahkiin.'

The Red Dragon soared, pounding the opaque crimson wings and rising into the air. The Assassin looked at it flying away and then at the Dragon flying above Skuldafn. Four of the six Dragons that had been sighted in Skyrim were gliding above the ruins, and Draugrs were patrolling every level of the structure. A blood red Sun illuminated the landscape, the same color it had during his fight with Alduin. _Let's just hope this isn't some omen, or Karliah's words might indeed be true…_

* * *

The arrival of the Guild Master is signaled by a defeating cheer. Every member of the Thieves Guild has gathered in the Flagon and they were all waiting for their boss to return, as he had said in his letter mere days before. They're all lined up and ready to welcome him with open arms.

'Boss, welcome back!'

The Dragonborn raises his left arm high up and grins wickedly, looking with fatherly affection at his fellows and subordinates. 'Well met, everybody!' he says, raising his voice just enough to surpass the noise. It's not too difficult, the sound of his deep bass echoes across tight spaces as sonorously as the deepest notes of an organ.

Brynjolf, at the head of the group, walks up to the Assassin and smacks him on the shoulder. 'Welcome home, lad. We've missed you.' Karliah, by Bryn's side, steps ahead herself and embraces the Guild Master, who returns the gesture and kisses her on the cheek.

The trio, finally reunited, looks as beautiful as ever. In Azrael's absence, the other two had kept the Guild going. Brynjolf manages personnel and Karliah organizes business. He does the encouragement, she does the math, and they look very prone to doing each one his or her own thing.

Azrael finally turns to the meeting of thieves before him.

'Here we are,' begins the Dragonborn. 'We're finally united. Look at you,' he says, in a mock-serious tone and with a smirk on his lips, gesturing at the crowd in front of him. 'You are a fine bunch of criminals. One of the best I've seen to date. I humbly admit my visit here is rather strange, since it should be the subordinate who calls for the boss. No manager in existence goes on his own will to see how his assistants are doing. Unheard of. It's a bit like a trap chasing a rat or a virgin chasing after a boy, is it not?'

The joke stirs the souls and the air is rent with the sound of the thieves laughing. The only women present in the group are hardly virgins themselves, and calmly laugh alongside the men at the chauvinistic jest.

'Anyway,' he continues, 'I see things are going rather well around here. Don't worry, everybody, it will soon pass…' he adds, and gets submerged in another wave of laughter. He continues only when the hilarity runs somewhat dry. 'Still, I want to compliment with everybody here for their hard work in bringing this crumbling giant in the right direction.'

'What about that Alduin fight you mentioned?' asks Vipir the Fleet. 'What did you mean?'

'Precisely what I wrote, or is that not the current trend any more?'

More snickers and giggles, after which Vipir continues: 'I know, but can you tell us something more?'

'I can,' answers the Assassin. 'Actually, it's the only reason I'm here. I guess I don't need to hide that anymore: I am Dragonborn. You know, the guy that eats spirits for breakfasts and kills people just yelling at them. Know him? Good,' he titters, hearing the whistles and the cries of approval from the members of the Guild. 'I see you're learned individuals. Well, what I've come to tell you is that, in a matter of days or weeks at most, I'm embarking on a mission that could very well be the last journey I'll have to do in order to resolve this Dragon mess.'

'That it?' Tonillia inquires. 'You've come to tell us you're off for another week or two?'

'Well, yes, and to warn you of something: I have no notion of what will happen to me while I'm pursuing that mission, it's not an everyday Guild job. Things is, I might never come back from said journey.'

Silence falls. Delvin is the first to break it. 'Well…' he says, drinking from a tankard. 'That was blunt.'

'But you've already won once against that Dragon, didn't you?' intervenes Karliah, less shocked than everyone else. 'Just keep and eye on the sky. Remember that terrible joke of yours? "The sky's so red it seems the stars have bled".'

* * *

 _Truer than ever, I guess,_ Azrael thought, smiling. _And the sky is indeed red. Oh well, no backing away now._ The words Karliah, thought a joke, strangely resonated in his head. They were prophetic, in a strange and twisted way, or they seemed as much. He didn't recall mentioning the red sky during his fight with the World Eater, and the fact that she had brought it up without knowing the truth was a funny coincidence. _Yeah, just a coincidence._

Azrael slashed away at the Draugr. Those pesky corpses kept coming at him, and he would have been able to sneak up on them hadn't the Dragons above looked down on him. One was grounded and was only waiting for the Assassin to come to the upper level of the ruin and fight. The other had flew away, still with two arrows sticking out of its abdomen. He wouldn't have gone very far, that was for sure. In the present moment, the Draugrs were the biggest threat.

The swings of the undead guardians were slow and overly aggressive, and left them completely exposed. It didn't seem to matter much to them though, for as long as their limbs worked they'd continued fighting. _Not only the limbs…_ the Assassin thought. _It's not the first time one tries to bite my ankle. Tough luck he found metal, but whatever. It's your teeth, you can do what you want with them._

Azrael parried a swing of a greatsword, repositioned Chillrend in a way that it was over the enemy's blade and pushed down. The tip of the greatsword clanged against the ground and the icy edge slid up, hacking off the arms of the undead and then dipping in the torso. He heard a whistle coming from behind, but he knew. He had kept in mind the other Draugr coming from behind. He spun, turning to face the new adversary, and swung from the upper left to down right, deflecting the predictable slice and neutralizing its threat. Flames sparkled in his left hand and a stream of fire was gushed into the rotten face of the undead, which squealed in pain as it burned, dying again.

 _Like Babette, you don't like fire, do you?_

* * *

Nazir looks towards the elevation of the room where the coffin of the Night Mother stands. The Listener places his hands on the ground and slowly rises, not taking his eyes away from the sarcophagus. Babette steals a glance at him and then they wait for him to descend. For the occasion, all six members of the Brotherhood are gathered. The Listener himself, who had called for the meeting, Nazir, Babette, Laegiine and Agarur, the two young assassins, and Wildach, a Breton boy and newest recruit.

By the time the Listener finishes listening the Unholy Matron's instructions, all the members are gathered. The Assassin sweeps his gaze over the five Dark Siblings and smiles.

'The Family is growing bigger and bigger,' he says with satisfaction. 'This is a new beginning.'

'Well, you were right after all,' concurs Nazir. 'We thought it was the end. I have to give you credit for trying, Azrael. Looking upon our home now, with no many younglings seeking to help us in our endeavors is pleasing.'

'But you did summon us to tell something important, did you?' asks Babette. Sharp as ever.

'Smart girl,' he says, leering at her. 'I am about to begin a quest that will probably result in the end of our Dragon problem. Thing is, my return is not utterly guarantied. If I die, it matters not. The whole world will end. If I win and for some unknown reason are unable to return… Tough luck. You'll have to find another Listen by yourself.'

'That's awful confident of you to say,' observes the little Vampire with a sly grin. 'It took us a few decades to a new one after the one in Bravil died, remember?'

'I guess so,' he replies, casually shrugging. 'However, the Night Mother seems confident in my return. She told me to fear not, for Sithis watches over me wherever I may go.'

'And you believe that?' asks Agarur. For what he knows of the Listener, he's never been the trusting type. And rightly so.

'Maybe not about me, but what happens to me specifically is of little importance. The Dread Father protects the Brotherhood, and that is all we can hope and ask for. If, unluckily, I fail to come back, I trust you'll hold your own finely. The old days are gone, people whisper again in the streets and the notice boards mention our kills with a great deal of fear. Don't worry, you'll do fine with or without me.'

'Well, Azrael,' says Nazir, walking up the stairs, grabbing him by the shoulder and dragging him down. 'Let us say our farewells as a true Family.' And with that said, the Redguard slaps him hard on the back and grips his forearm with strength. The Assassin readily returns the gesture and smirks.

The Listener proceeds to shake Agarur's hand, embrace Laegiine and give a fatherly slap on the shoulder to Wildach, who smiles respectfully and nods.

Lastly, Azrael turns to Babette. The little Vampire runs at him and leaps unnaturally high, managing grab his neck. The Assassin hugs her, but a little flame sparkles in his hand.

'No!' the girl laments, her brows furrowing. 'No fire! I hate it!'

'Next time, don't jump to my neck. It gives the wrong impression.'

* * *

 _Yeah, and I hope you don't like fire as much as she does,_ thought the Assassin, focusing the stream of flames against the Dragon Priest. The undead screams in pain and begins to crumble to dust as the blazes seep into its sinews and destroys its corpse. _Burn, damn you._

When the Priest finally stopped moving Azrael conceded himself a break. He picked up Chillrend, stuck in the mangled pile of rotten sinews and brunt bones that made up the undead. The blade hisses menacingly, as if satiated with death. The Dragonborn had given it aplenty, for that matter. The Blade of Woe had cut down most of the enemies, the one that hadn't been able to see him, but when they did the icy blade had quickly dispatched of them.

Corpses died twice crammed Skuldafn. Draugrs culled down and Dragons killed. The bones of one of the latter formed a pile behind the Assassin, and some of them bore the mark of his blades. Two snapped arrows lied beside it, the only ones the Assassin hadn't been able to pick up again.

The way to Sovngarde was right in front of him. The whirlwind of light that rose up to the sky formed a glimmering vortex of mysterious energy. Azrael felt the magic it gave off reaching him and fueling him. As much as it did with the Dragons, that link with the otherworldly plane gave him strength.

Odahviing had been rather specific about his entrance in the afterlife. 'Mulaag Mal Meyz,' it had said. 'Your strength will diminish in Sovngarde. A joor should never be allowed to go there, but you can. Your dovahsoos, Dragon blood, will keep you alive.'

The Assassin looked in the vortex, opened his arms and let himself fall into the abyss. Skyrim blurred and shimmered into nothingness.

Sovngarde appeared shortly after.

You'd be surprised, but Azrael himself didn't remember every single detail of the place when he finally came back to the world of the living. His memories felt shattered and hazy. First he found himself on a sort of higher point, with marble stair leading him down. The sky was of three different colors and the three shapes of the Warrior, the Mage and Thief seemed to gleam weakly when he looked closely. The stairs led to the lower level, which was presumably a large plain.

It was very hard to see, however, since it was completely engulfed in a colorless, dense and extremely thick mist. The Assassin walked into it and felt weakened, enfeebled. He tried different things, but not even potions worked. He quickly came to the conclusion that the fog inflicted a sickness on the soul, not the body.

His greatest enemy gave him the solution, though. Azrael heard Alduin roar strongly above him, as if to greet him. _It's your doing, then_ , he realized, and so decided it would be wise to fight fire with fire. In that case Thu'um with Thu'um.

'Lok… Vah Koor!'

The mist dispersed, and he proceeded having regained his strength.

On the way, he found three people wandering about in the mist. One was a complete stranger, a Stormcloak soldier, who warned him from going onward. After having calmed him, the Assassin offered him to follow, promising he'd reach the Hall of Valor safe and sound. He accepted. A bit further, sitting in a corner, they found an old acquaintance of the Dragonborn. Kodlak White-Mane, the Harbinger of the Companions. He didn't even seem to recognize Azrael, and refused to follow him into the mist.

Lastly, Azrael found someone he never thought of encountering.

'Beware!' the man cried. 'The World Eater waits within the mist!' He was clad in a rather expensive garment and wore the same gold circlet that Elisif had, with a similar ruby placed in it.

'The World Eater won't harm you, as long as you are with me. Come. Who are you?'

'I'm High King Torygg,' he said, and continued talking in spite of the shadow that obscured the face of the Assassin. 'When Ulfric Stormcloak, with savage Shout, sent me here, my sole regret was fair Elisif, left forlorn and weeping. I faced him fearlessly. My fate inescapable, yet my honor is unstained. Can Ulfric say the same?'

'Don't know about the honor of your killer, but I can say something about your widow.'

'Really?' asked the man, almost unfeelingly. The mist had sucked him dry of feelings, but that awakened a sliver of interest in him. 'How is she?

'She's well.'

The small group continued towards Shor's Hall. In the meantime, Azrael told Torygg what he could about Elisif, given the time restrains. By the time they left the mist, the Assassin had finished his tale.

'I won't judge what you did,' said the High King in the end. 'I only have one question: is she happy?'

'Yes. Very.'

'That brings me some relief. Have I…' he tried to say, and had he been living he'd have maybe blushed. 'Do you think I've been a good husband to her?'

The wicked grin Azrael gave the man was tainted with tenderness. _Humans_ , he thought, _so simple and impractical, but at long last I've learned to admire them and like them._ 'Yes, you have.'

The tall man standing guard by the entrance of the Hall, Tsun, let the spirits of the dead pass without a hitch, but stood in front of the Dragonborn. Azrael quickly learned he was the Shield-thane of Shor himself. Recognizing he wasn't a spirit, he asked by what right he walked that plane, upon which Azrael stated the truth. He walked there by right of birth, as he was Dragonborn.

And, after a quick fight to test his worthiness, the deity allowed him passage.

The Hunt began now. The Hunter had become the Hunted.


	16. Usurper

The Hall of Valor was the place everyone would like to be in, except for Azrael. The Assassin generally disliked crowed places, and while it was possible to move it was certainly uncomfortable in certain areas. Old heroes and warriors stood around the fires in the center, looking after the giant roasted oxen coiling on the skewers. The place was noisy, and the sounds echoed strongly. The acoustic was so good it increased the clamor, much to the Dragonborn's displeasure.

In spite of the atmosphere, the placed interested him. His own loathing made him curious. That was the last place on Mundus he'd have liked to stay in. The only peaceful place there was the throne of Shor, high above the center of the hall and empty. That was another strange thing: everyone told him Shor had commanded them not to go out, but he wasn't even there.

He spent as little time as he could in the Hall. He gathered the Dragon-hunting party, the same three heroes he had seen in the Time Tear. 'Gormlaith the fearless, glad-hearted in battle; Hakon the valiant, heavy-handed warrior; Felldir the Old, far-seeing and grim.' This was the way Ysgramor himself had described them. After having found them and told them what he was up to, they prepared to set off. Just before, the Assassin walked up to Jurgen Wind-Caller and Olaf One-Eye, who were having a peaceful conversation, and thanked them both. The first for his insight in mastering the Voice and the second for having left Dragonsreach behind.

After that, the Dragonborn and the three heroes of old went out of the Hall.

 _Strange…_ Azrael thought. _They have insisted so long on Shor's command to remain in the Hall, and yet they obeyed my command. Aedra and Daedra, I hold some power even here in the afterlife._

'To battle, my friends!' incited Gormlaith, always eager to kill. 'The fields will echo with the clamor of war, our wills undaunted!'

The Assassin was something different from those heroes of legend. They prepared for the battle finding courage and seeking strength through cries and calls to glory. Azrael didn't tell them to shut their traps or anything, but had the will to. He acquired his strength through reflection, introspection. He was focusing on his breath, sensing every beat of his heart and feeling the heat surging into his arteries. This was his force, and wasn't about to yell or shriek at the skies to find more.

'The eyes of Shor are upon you this day. Defeat Alduin, and destroy his soul-snare,' said Tsun as they walked towards the rim of the mist.

'We will,' Azrael assured him.

The three heroes of old walked to the side of the Dragonborn and stared into the fog. The mist had something unnatural about it, but the not same otherworldly feel of everything else there was in Sovngarde. It was something tainted, ravenous, as if the hunger of the World Eater itself was condensed into the spectral curtain. The green grass was suffocated by the heavy haze, and both the horizon and the sky blurred when the fog reached the eyes.

'We cannot fight the foe in this mist!' said Felldir the Old, unsheathing his greatsword.

'Clear Skies!' cried Gormlaith. 'Combine out Shouts!'

Sky, Spring, Summer. Those names were alien in that place, but the memories of the mortal world reinvigorated the Assassin. Blood rushed quicker in his veins, his heart strengthened the beats. The heroes of old breathed deeply, and then the voices of the dragonslayers thundered.

'Lok… Vah Koor!'

The mist dissipated. The heavens cleared and the mixed light coming from the firmament above shone brightly for a moment. Then, as if to challenge the might of its foes, Alduin shouted back. The Voice came from nowhere in particular, and seemed to echo across the entire valley.

'Ven Mul Riik!'

The fog overwhelmed them, and they were forced to back off. The heroes stepped back, but Azrael growled with obstinacy and refused to yield. He looked in the eyes of his allies and gave them a nod.

'Again!' Gormlaith yelled.

And again the shouted. 'Lok… Vah Koor!'

Everything played out again exactly as it had done moments before. In response, Alduin made his Voice hearable again. Imperturbable and unflustered, its Thu'um echoed again.

'Ven Mul Riik!'

The mist returned, and even the Assassin had to surrender some ground.

'Does his strength have no end? Is our struggle in vain?' asked Hakon gloomily.

Azrael found in that moment of weakness a valid motive to amuse himself. It seemed humans were just as fragile in death as they were in life. 'Stand fast,' he said, turning to the man. 'We won't retreat and we won't surrender.'

'The Dragonborn's right!' said Gormlaith in his support. 'Its strength is failing! Once more and its might will be broken!'

One last time. The Thu'um seared through the mist and dissolved it, this time with newfound violence. The purity of the sky dispelled the voracious hunger, the freshness of the Spring cleared the tainted nature of the fog and the heat of the Summer melted the cruel snare that was hidden in the haze. Azrael slowly drew Chillrend, listening to the hissing sound of the blade.

The sound of wings pounding was in the air. The Assassin felt a cold breeze touching his face and saw the tall trees being shaken violently by the gusts. Alduin was near, and it was more powerful than ever before. The skies darkened and the ground trembled before its might. The black figure of the Dragon appeared in the valleys, and signaled the start of that last stand against the obliteration of existence as the Assassin knew it.

'Wait for when it's still and use Dragonrend!' Azrael ordered the others. 'We need to make it land.'

'At your command, Dragonborn!' answered Gormlaith. She, together with Azrael, was the only one who had a bow.

Alduin glided over them. It whipped its wings right above, casting a powerful flurry down towards the archers. Azrael's hand trembled and his legs quaked and he no longer had a clear shot. Gormlaith had the same problem, and the two shared a glance. They knew the plan. They lessened the tension of the string and waited for when the Dragon would turn.

Azrael looked at his older sibling, the eldest of its kind, and felt mixed emotions. He had troubles distinguishing those coming from his mortal side from the ones of the Dragon part of his mind. There was something strange about the World Eater, something he couldn't fully understand in the present moment. He couldn't deny the power and might of the Firstborn, but it seemed to him his power had grown stale, aimless.

It made sense. Why was Alduin there in the first place? Because someone had used the Scroll to cast him forward in time. So did the world need to end? No, because the presence of the black Dragon there was just the result of the incomprehensible whim of the Elder Scroll. Alduin did what he did best and what he, by caprice of Fate, enjoyed doing. But he had no motive, what he was trying to do had no place in the world. If anything, the World Eater too seemed doom-driven.

The Dragon began its turn. Azrael pulled the string, and moments later he released.

The Bow of the Nightingale. The Assassin carried the legacy of the Thieves Guild with him wherever he went. The elven arrow struck Alduin in the abdomen, in the spot where scales are softer and the ridges that connect them together are larger. Gormlaith's projectile hit the chin, leaving nothing but a small graze.

Alduin swayed, out of balance. This was the right moment.

Four Voices echoed in the valley like a roll of thunder.

'Joor… Zah Frul!'

The Words of Death sounded unnatural and twisted in the pristine air of Sovngarde. The corruption of the flesh, the decay and rot of the bodies and disjoining of the soul was something so remote from the place where they stood to the point of sounding a defiance. And yet, Azrael's mortal side awakened to power his Words. Speaking the Worlds of Death brought him a strange delight, the same thrill he feels when taking a life. Using Dragonrend is the equivalent of killing, and the Assassin never feels more alive than when he's taking a soul.

The World Eater crashed against the ground. It tumbled onward, reeling. It pointed its wings against the terrain, keeping itself on its legs, and turned to face its foes.

The heroes of old had unsheathed their weapons already, and the Dragonborn did the same. The greatsword of Felldir, carved with the ancient tongue of the Nords and sharp as the day it was forged. The broadsword of Gormlaith, jagged and rough. The battleaxe of Hakon, heavy as a trunk and deadly in his strong hands. Lastly, Chillrend appeared. The enchanted blade hissed ravenously and the icy mist rose into the air.

The battle commenced.

The heroes of old, thought strong, couldn't stand against the might of Alduin. The Dragon arched its neck and shouted, its Voice intensified by the countless soul it has devoured.

'Fus… Ro Dah!'

The Assassin alone had the readiness to roll aside and avoid the hurricane that erupted from the World Eater's maws. He tried to counterattack. Fire was surging in his blood.

'Yol… Toor Shul!'

The flood of flames crashed again the Ender of Worlds, which tumbled backwards with a roar of pain. A cruel grin of satisfaction touched the corners of the Assassin's lips. Alduin was strong, but couldn't ignore the power of his Thu'um. It wasn't just a battle for survival. It was also a fight for supremacy. The blazes enveloped the form of the Dragon and twirled around it, surrounding its whole, titanic mass.

That brief moment of impasse on the World Eater's part was all they needed to get back in the fray. Azrael dashed forwards as fast as his legs allowed him, and the three others followed along. Gormlaith was the first to go in, raising her blade and lowering it with all the strength of the charge. Her sword almost bounced back when it hit the scales, and Azrael had little luck as well. Chillrend struck one of the barbs and recoiled. Hakon, a bit later, managed to swing twice but not even the strength of his hits penetrated the organic cuirass.

But at that point, Alduin had recovered and retaliated. The Dragon flailed its right wing, producing a powerful gust and grazing Hakon's armor with the clawed end of the wing. Simultaneously, it slammed the tail where Azrael was standing and forced him to roll away. Lastly, a quick snap of the teeth made the tactical-minded Felldir back away a little.

'Krii Lot Frin!' roared the World Eater.

'Mu Ful Fen,' answered the Dragonborn, ending his roll steadily and standing up straight. 'We'll also kill you eagerly.'

Azrael closed the distance again with a quick pirouette. He had noticed that all the damage the Dragon had suffered during their previous fight had healed completely. Its eye was open and functioning, but Azrael remembered without fail the Blade of Woe dipping into the soft tissue of the vitreous chamber. Even the icy browses left by Chillrend had disappeared.

Alduin moved its leg forward, trying to catch the Assassin with a swipe of the talon, but missed. Azrael grabbed the blade with both hands and thrust into the side, aiming for the junction with the wing. It was the only weak spot in his reach. He charged and aimed correctly, controlling the shakes of his muscles.

The strike landed all right. A few inches of the tip did pierce the junction, and the uncontrolled spasm that shook the sinews confirmed it. As much as Azrael tried to push, all was for nothing. He guessed the blade had hit a bone, and those things were insanely hard. The Assassin had to pull the blade out before the strong swaying threw him to the ground. He was way too near to the talons of the legs to let that happen.

He vaulted back, and saw that the others were holding their own while Alduin was distracted keeping him at bay. They swung their blades and, since none of them seemed to have the precision to target the ridges connecting the scales, they were intelligently focusing their efforts on the head and neck of the Dragon. The World Eater tried to keep them away by snapping its teeth regularly, and to some extent it worked. They had to go in one at the time at most, but were still leaving some scratches on the skull of the monster.

'For Skyrim!' screamed Gormlaith, striking. She was by far the loudest of them all.

Once Alduin had driven the Assassin off, he concentrated all efforts on the three. The Dragon turned at incredible speed for its size, slashing its tail from right to left and tripping two of the warriors and knocking away the last one. Temporarily alone, the Dragonborn and the World Eater exchanged glares.

'I have already defeated your friends once,' snarled the Dragon. 'Beyn. I do not fear them.'

'Faas Zu'u Sinon,' replied the Dragonborn, coldly, while slowly walking in circles around the winged creature. 'Fear me instead. I have killed many of your allies. Back in Skyrim, many plan to betray you.'

'Thaarn Lot Thu'um. They will obey to my Voice once I make my return, with your soul in my belly.'

'Viik Hi Ont, Alduin. I vanquished you once, and I will do so again.'

Azrael didn't doubt the World Eater's will to reply, but the three Nord heroes had gotten on their feet and were already attacking again. The Assassin, seeing that the managed to hold their own in that enclosed melee, decided to switch up his tactic. Alduin was strong, and they might have been in for a prolonged fight. In that case, they needed to prevent things that would cost them too much effort to counteract.

 _The Wyrm taking flight, for example,_ Azrael thought. He put Chillrend back in the leather sheath and grabbed the bow with his left hand and an arrow with the right once. The bow was long and heavy to draw, but Karliah had taught him the best techniques to fire it fast. He didn't need to, not in that moment. All he required was for his aim to be on point and the shot to be strong.

He strode around the Dragon, trying to reach the wing that wasn't already injured. _Damn, it's huge,_ he thought, after realizing how much time it was taking him to circle around the beast. He had miscalculated slightly, and his arm was beginning to shake from the effort of keeping the string tense. In other times, this might have been a problem, but his physical strength and prowess had reached levels where small inaccuracies counted for little.

When he finally arrived in the right spot to fire, he stopped moving for a moment. He released the string, letting go of the projectile as soon as he could without rushing the shot. The whistle made by the arrow got completely covered by the clamor of the battle, the bellows of the warrior and the growls of the World Eater. The ring of blades came regularly.

The projectile struck the intended target. Nature adapts to the most common needs, and the most common need of a Dragon is to fly. Thus, nature forms the body in a way that is suitable to flying, which however leaves the sinews and nerves used for this action exposed and at risk of getting hit. The arrow dipped inside the ligaments until it struck the bone, but not before severing the tissues in between.

Alduin roared and raised its head to the sky. Smoke blew out of his mouth and the bellow of rage made the very earth quake. Azrael didn't waste any time savoring the achievement and nocked another arrow. The next targets were the legs. With those hurt and the wings injured, the Dragon would have had troubles moving entirely, on the ground or in the air.

The two quick shots, fired in a rapid succession, both reached their targets. _Both Aela and Karliah would be proud of me right now,_ he thought with a grin. The arrows struck where they were intended to and further disabled the Dragon's ability to move around.

Alduin rose on its hurt claws and thundered an earsplitting scream.

'Ruth Strun Bah!'

The firmament darkened, turning red. Azrael knew this, but he wasn't in a position where he could have used Clear Skies safely. Meteors started raining from the sky, and the blares and crashes as they hit the ground covered even the shrieks of the battle.

 _It's angry…_ the Assassin realized. _It's really angry, and this is really bad for us. Oblivion, we…_

His stream of thoughts got cut off by a bolide falling right beside him. The blast knocked him off his feet. The cursed thing had come from right above his head, where he didn't even check for perils. The chances were so incredibly slim it had seemed a waste of time. But it had happened, and now flames were consuming his hood and splinters sinking into his cuirass.

'Fus… Ro Dah!'

The Voice of the World eater arrived to the Dragonborn's ears slightly muffled, but it wasn't coming his way. The blast beside him had severely lessened his perception of sounds, but that he could guess. _This is bad…_ he thought, struggling to get up. _This is so bad…_

He didn't even know what had happened to the three warriors. He presumed they had been propelled backwards, but there was no way of knowing. His neck hurt and his back was stiff. He had probably fallen on a nerve or on the spine, and he felt like any movement could snap his vertebrae. He didn't hear the clang of the blades anymore, so he guessed that was the case. Actually, all he heard was the black Dragon clumping, and the sound was getting clearer and clearer.

By the time he understood he was in trouble, the jaws of Alduin were already closing on him.

The thing that allowed Azrael to survive all the time that passed between the murder of the Morag Tong and that moment, were his reflexes. His body reacted extremely quickly to stimulations, especially the ones that were a danger to his life. His mind quickened, time itself seemed to slow and space shaped differently for the lapse of time necessary to save his own life.

And even this time, his lighting-fast reactions didn't betray him.

His fingers clutched the Blade of Woe on the belt. Chillrend had escaped his grip and lied meters away. His forearm straightened and stiffed, readying for the hit. The arm extended, reaching for the mouth of the Dragon before the teeth could clench with him in between the rows.

Azrael saw very little of what happened, but felt the resistance as he dipped the blade further into the creature's palate. Alduin quickly raised its head, and snapped its teeth a couple of times, growling menacingly and trying to get rid of the stinging pain that was piercing his mouth. The Assassin looked at the World Eater, and saw that the winged monster was furious.

Alduin roared and brought its neck to one side and then swiping the ground with it. Azrael could do nothing to defend himself and gripped the Blade of Woe as tight as he could. The crash with the barbed head of the Dragon hurled him aside. Two thorns, maybe spikes of the World Eater's back, penetrated his armor and gashed him. The pain was tolerable, for the moment. He was still awake.

But for how long?

'Faaz Nah!' screamed Alduin.

 _Pain, Fury…_ the Assassin managed to translate. _It's cursing me. It's furious…_

The Ender of Worlds loomed over him, and there was no way of escaping. He rolled to the side, but Alduin placed a clawed wing beside him to dissuade him from continuing. The Dragon lowered its head, trying to bite, but the Assassin slashed its chin and spun, leaning on the right shoulder. Azrael knew it was for nothing, or close enough to nothing. Those hits only angered the Dragon more and more, they didn't do any damage to it.

He felt a claw sinking in his leg. Then the talon plummeting into his thigh. Now the pain was unbearable, but he didn't faint. Just like it happened after the battle with Mercer, when the rocks had shredded his bones. He wouldn't have conceded himself the privilege to faint, not before having solved that mess.

'Vaaz Luv Al!'

Teeth graved his chest, rending his armor and wounding the flesh deeply. Blood seeped from the slashes, dampening his torso and legs.

He didn't cry. He didn't scream.

Alduin raised the bloodied maws. 'Fu… Ro Dah!'

The Assassin just felt the impact. The rocks were hard, even in the afterlife. Through the torn armor, his chest was red with blood. He had seen it some many times, but it was one of the only times he actually took a look at his.

'Dragonborn!' came a voice, the one of Gormlaith.

Azrael looked intensely at Alduin. The Assassin glared at the World Eater coldly, with a mock-serious expression on his face. In the Dragon's golden eyes he saw everything, ranging from ancestral knowledge to fierce cunning, but there was one thing missing. _Yes_ , he said to himself, strangely tranquil. _You think yourself invincible, but you're not. This is just fate playing mean tricks on us. It's fate, I know it. I know it because when I kill you, I'll be free of its shackles._

It looked to him as if Titus Mede's story was repeating itself. It's not just the Enders who destroy the Creators, but also the Enders that kill each other when the others' time has run out. Alduin had served its purpose, and his demise was Fate's way of rejuvenating the world. In a way, Azrael wasn't playing the slayer on Alduin, he was playing the usurper. As the World Eater has been the king of destroyers, not it was Azrael's turn to fulfill that role.

 _We may be tools, but what of it?_ Azrael said to himself, taking his gaze to and away from his tortured chest. _Fate guides us, but in truth, it even doesn't exist. It's us mortals that personify it._ And while wondering, the Assassin felt his mortal side giving way all its energy and vigor to the immortal, unending side of his soul.

Now he saw the truth.

 _Titus, you were partially right,_ he thought with a strange kind of tenderness, the same Paarthurnax had displayed time and time again as he taught him the Dovahzul. _Fate guides us, true enough, but Fate is nothing. It's not material, it doesn't think nor act nor guide. It is predetermination, randomness and chance all in one. Fate is the Vennesetiid, the Currents of Time._ As he reasoned, the world began to change colors. Sovngarde itself shapeshifted, remaining the exact same but becoming something else entirely. Everything assumed a whole new meaning. Things that previously felt important now collapsed in the realization of the nothingness they were.

The Dragonborn's eyes flared. Flames seared through them as they deepened and deepened, becoming bottomless chasms of knowledge and comprehension. A cynical, sarcastic, glacial sneer warped his lips. Those talks of Fate, of the Left Hand…He had always wondered if they were the truth of not. Now he knew.

The Assassin thrust his fists in the ground and rose, covered in blood and fire. Now, he was something more than mortal.

 _This day, I truly become a fratricide._

Alduin looked at its enemy nearing, feeling half doubt and half rage. The World Eater roared its anger and head-butted Hakon One-eye, hurling him backwards. It didn't react fast enough at the sound of a new, unexpected threat.

'Wuld… Nah Kest!'

The Dragonborn was bleeding, wounded, broken, but he was near the Dragon and looked terrifying. There was nothing heroic or epic about him, in that moment.

He was the aspect of Doom.

His eyes burned, gushed flames all around. His skin, dampened with blood, poured flames out of every pore. The blade twirled in his hands, moving so fast it was invisible to anyone but the wielder and the World Eater. Death was his mantle. A dreadful aura encircled him and protected him, an aura made of everything that is mortal, finite and unholy. Despair followed his trail.

Chaos and Void.

When his eyes finally lost the baleful flare, the World Eater lied motionless. Long tears in its scales revealed the result of the clash. A clash that was a sign, one that poses again a recurring question: if rage is truly capable of destroying reason. If feelings are enough to annihilate the mind. No one knows the answer, but the contingent answer was negative.

Alduin, who had fought with rage and fear, had been furious and frantic in its actions. The World Eater had seemed insane. Azrael was not insane. He had been glacial and calm. And had fought glacially and calmly.

The World Eater lied defenseless before him. Its gaze was still challenging, as if it didn't consider defeat a valid option. Still, the Dragon referred to it.

'Ahkrin Zu'u Krii,' it growled lowly. 'Kill me, if you have the courage.'

'It's not courage I need,' replied the Assassin. 'Ni Faas Hi. I do not fear you, not anymore, and your death brings me no joy.'

And with that said, the Dragonborn, the Ender, the Godsplitter, plunged the Blade of Woe through the scales of the Ender of Worlds. And doing this, he freed himself of Time's shackles.

The Dragonborn could do many things, but he didn't hold any power that could claim the World Eater's essence. The scales as black as slate cracked, fell apart, pulverizing. From the fractures in its natural armor, pure force seeped through. The energy was oozing out of the shell containing it.

'Zu'u unslaad! Zu'u nis oblaan!'

As the form of the Ender disintegrated and dissolved into nothingness, its soul dispersed. To what end, that's not known to anyone. The agonizing screams of Alduin died only when his figure completed its inevitable collapse and dissolved in naught, leaving nothing behind but null and void.

Azrael stared into the sky, imperturbable. 'Farewell, brother.'


	17. Epilogue: Godsplitter

A/N: At long last, we come at the end of this journey. It has been great. I thank everyone that is here, reading the ending of this long tale. There are those who followed me from the beginning and those who joined half-way through. It doesn't matter where you picked up. Thanks to everyone.

That is all. Now, don't let me keep you any longer.

* * *

Azrael had wondered, and in fact had thought about asking Tsun, where he was going to land in Tamriel once the Shield-thane of Shor sent him back. He had a suspicion though, and the first things he saw and sensed right upon regaining perception confirmed his conjecture.

The sole of his boots was rent, and so he felt the coolness of the snow beneath his feet. His cuirass was damaged, and the cold gale got through the tears and the holes. The hood, slashed in two by a talon slash, was safe in his pockets, because there was no further use for it on his head.

 _The Throat of the World has a bad reputation. Every time I come here my armor is in pieces._

It was dawn. He had left the world of the living at around Midnight, and now the Sun was rising. A new day was beginning. A new Sun was rising. A Sun that would shine without the menace of being devoured. Its burning ring was overshadowed by the bright golden light irradiated from it. The radiance struck the mountains, and the colors altered in reds and even purples when striking the snow. The clouds reflected the color, turning orange and even violet.

Nirn was safe, and it was more beautiful then ever.

Around the Dragonborn, several other of his kin were united. The Dragons were perched on the rock formations of the Throat of the World. There were some the Assassin knew about, but many other ones he had never seen. Maybe the backlash coming from Alduin annihilation had awakened the remaining ones, or just a small number of them. No way of knowing that for certain.

Paarthurnax was stationed on top of the Nordic wall, as it often did.

'Alduin mahlaan,' they chanted, in their rough, cavernous voices.

'Alduin has fallen…' the Dragonborn whispered. They spoke for the Dov, he spoke for the Joor, the mortals.

Two of the Dragons took flight. They pounded their wings and screamed, spewing fire as if to condemn for the World Eater.

'Sahrot thur qahnaraan,' said one of the two.

'Alduin mahlaan,' the others responded.

'Alduin has fallen.'

Azrael heard lumbering steps behind him, and turned. He spied Odahviing coming towards him, without uttering a word. Meanwhile, more Dragons soared in the radiant sky. The colors of the sunrise glimmered on their scales and melded in their flames.

'Dovahkiin los ok dovahkriid,' said Paarthurnax.

'Alduin mahlaan.'

'Alduin has fallen.'

The vast majority of the Dragon was now in the air, gliding above the peak of the mountain. Only the more ancient and powerful ones were still on the ground. The chant continued.

'Thu'umii los nahlot.'

'Alduin mahlaan.'

'Alduin has fallen.'

Only one Dragon was still on the ground. It was an ancient one, maybe of the same generation as Paarthurnax and Alduin itself. Its scales were coppery red and black. It raised its head to the sky.

'Mu los vomir.'

Then, even that one flew off. They weren't going anywhere yet, they were all circling around the Throat of the World. Some were starting to fly away, but the vast majority was still there.

'So,' said Paarthurnax, and Azrael turned towards the Dragon at once. 'It is done. Alduin dilon. The Eldest is no more, he who came before all others and has always been.'

Odahviing approached the Dragonborn even more. It was behind him, close enough to protect him in case of need. Azrael casted a glance at the Red Dragon, but focused on the words of Paarthurnax. He shared the feeling that seemed to transpire from the tone of the old Dragon.

'I see you too aren't too happy about it.'

'Happy? No, I am not happy.' The Dovah sounded even more sorrowful. 'Zeymahi lost ont du'ul Bormahu. Alduin was once the crown of our father Akatosh's creation. You did what was necessary. Alduin had flown far from the path of right action in its pahlok, the arrogance of its power. But I cannot celebrate its fall. Zu'u tiiraaz ahst ok mah. He was my brother once. This world will never be the same.'

'Well, I told you I'd stop him. And I did.'

'And so you fulfilled your destiny, which you once said you did not believe in. Perhaps now you have some insight into the forces that shape the Vennesetiid… The Currents of Time. Perhaps you begin to see the world as a Dovah,' said the Old One. Azrael, for the first time in months, felt pleased with himself. With his great success. He knew what Fate, what had guided him there, was. He had often wondered whether it was a lie or not. Now he knew the answer. 'But I forget myself,' continued the Dragon. 'Krosis. So los mid Fahdon. Melancholy is an easy trap for a Dovah to fall into.'

Paarthurnax assumed a higher stance.

'You have won a might victory, Dovahkiin. Sahrot krongrah. One that will echo through all ages of this world for those who have eyes to see. Savor your triumph. This is not the last of what you will write upon the Currents of Time.'

'It may be. And you?'

'I will gather what's left of our kind, and teach them the Way of the Voice.'

From behind the Assassin, Odahviing produced a hollow sound that almost sounded like a laughter. 'Pruzah wundunne wah Wuth Gein,' the Red Dragon murmured. 'I wish you luck in your… quest, Old One. But I doubt many will wish to exchange Alduin's lordship for the tyranny of your Way of the Voice.'

'Kun hi Hadrim, Zeymah. What will you do, Odahviing?'

'The Dovahkiin has proven his mastery to me twice over. Thuri, Dovrahkren. The Godsplitter is my overlord, now. I gladly acknowledge the power of his Thu'um. Zu'u Odahviing. Du'ul Suleyk Fent. The Dov need a new lord, and the Dovahkiin is our best Miiraad… Our best option.'

'Vahzan…' concurred Paarthurnax. 'Nuz, motmahus… This is hard to answer.' The Old One turned to the Dragonborn, and looked him in the eyes. 'Dovahkiin, balaan hi mindol? Do you think yourself worthy and capable of this task?'

The crimson eyes of the Godsplitter gazed back in the ones of the Dovah, and then drifted to the red Dragon, standing behind him.

'With you at my side, of course,' he answered. 'But are you sure of this?'

'Uth ni dii,' replied the Old One. 'I have never desired to command. I would be glad to give this… responsibility, over to you.'

'Your mastery is unmatched,' said Odahviing. 'Viik Alduin Dun. You defeated Alduin deftly. It will be my honor to serve as your Aak ko Uth… Your second in command.'

The Assassin tittered darkly, and turned to Paarthurnax. 'Ful nii los. So it is. Do you remember when I said that it wasn't destiny but ambition that led me here?'

'Geh, Dovahkiin. I recall.'

'Well, my ambition and desire have been fulfilled. I have overcome Alduin, and now I'm taking its place.'

'Grik los lein,' replied the Dragon. 'Such is the world. Yours is a great power, Dovrahkren… Godsplitter. Kod nii Onik. Use it… wisely.'

Azrael set one foot in the direction of the peak of the Throat of the World. He slowly turned, letting the cold wind blow on his face. He would receive no further help from his advisors, for now. He was the new king, the new lord. It was his calling to rule his kin.

'Dov!'

From all across Skyrim, his siblings answered his call. His Voice was strong, the strongest they had ever heard, and none of them could resist the calling. From all over Tamriel, Dragons came. Awakened, they soared.

One by one, they all arrived. The young, the old, the weak and the strong, the faithful and the treacherous. They perched on the rocks, positioned on the stones coming out of the snow. They all looked the Last Dragonborn. The Assassin. The Godsplitter. Some revered him, some respected him and some feared him. Azrael didn't let himself be influenced.

'Dov,' he said, addressing the Dragons in front of him, 'Miiraad neh us koraav. I offer you a way, a new way. Alduin mahlaan. Alduin has fallen. Zu'u los ok dovahkriid, ok Dovrahkren. I am his slayer, I am his destroyer. Alduin was the most powerful among you. Now I am. Fen hi laan Zu'u ol Thur? Will you accept me as lord?'

The ancient Dragon that had spoken last now spoke first. 'Dovahkiin bahlaan.'

 _The Dragonborn is worthy…_ translated Azrael in his mind, a smile touching the corners of his lips.

'Dovahkiin bahlaan,' chanted all the Dragons.

'Alduin mahlaan,' said Odahviing.

'Alduin mahlaan,' the Dov repeated in unison.

'Hi laan Dovahkiin, Jun?' asked Paarthurnax.

Do you want the Dragonborn as king?

'Dovahkiin, Jun.'

'Hi laan Dovrahkren, Thur?'

Do you want the Godsplitter as Overlord?

'Dovrahkren, Thuri!'

* * *

A/N: This is the end of _Godsplitter._ Feel free to leave a Favorite if you liked it. Azrael's tale continues in _Day Keeper, Night Reaper._


End file.
